


Grouchy Old Bear

by queensusan



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 07x01 Dragonstone, Alcohol Withdrawal, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Relationships, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Cleganebowl, Developing Friendships, Eastwatch, Episode: s07e05 Eastwatch, Episode: s07e06 Beyond the Wall, Final Battle, Fix-It, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Illness, Jealousy, Kissing, M/M, No other main characters die, Outdoor Sex, POV Sandor, Prison, Revenge, Rimming, Sandor Lives, Sandor/Arya father/daughter/friendship, Sandor/Sansa father/daughter/friendship, Smut, Snow, Thoros is not dead, Thoros lives, s7 ep1 Dragonstone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2018-12-03 17:43:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 45,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11537226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queensusan/pseuds/queensusan
Summary: “You're a puzzle, Clegane,” Thoros said after a while.  “You're always telling me we'll die-”“We will,” Sandor interrupted.“But you won't let me die in peace,” Thoros concluded.“Peace,” Sandor scoffed angrily. “Cunts die in peace. Die fighting, priest, or don't die at all.”This story is a fix-it fic for season 7, giving Thoros and Sandor the endings I think they both deserve.  It is heavy on the romance and erotica, but it has some plot thrown in, including: Cleganebowl, Stark reunions and the ending of the war and peace for the Kingdom.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this story begins immediately after Thoros and Sandor bury the farmer and his daughter.

“Clegane, wait!” Thoros called as Sandor strode heavily through the snow past him. 

Sandor would have happily ignored the priest but the man was fool enough to put a restraining hand on Sandor's arm, halting him abruptly. Sandor froze, clenching his teeth and mentally daring Thoros to say anything.

Thoros didn't seem to know what to say, however. His expression was creased with conflict and his mouth was pinched shut around words he didn't voice. Sandor thought he would happily kill him if he opened his cunt mouth- in his overwrought state either sympathy or censure could spell Thoros's death, no matter how much he might later regret it. It was bad enough that Thoros had witnessed the moment of compassion and weakness Sandor had allowed himself- to speak of it would have been intolerable.

“Open your mouth and speak and I'll put something you won't like in it,” he said dangerously, not realizing how suggestive his words sounded until Thoros's eyes flew open in surprise and his mouth cracked in a suggestive leer. “I meant my fist, cocksucker,” he snapped, balling up his fist and imagining it, the satisfying creak of bone on skin and the cut knuckles.

“Did you?” Thoros asked, not moving out of Sandor's way. He seemed both thoughtful and amused, and it defused Sandor's temper slightly. Like Beric, Thoros wasn't a bad person. He didn't deserve to die. He'd probably done more to help than harm in his life, which was more than Sandor could claim.

“You seem rather preoccupied with my mouth and the sucking it might do, Clegane,” Thoros drawled, his lips twitching up even further and his eyes glittering with mischief. Sandor took another threatening step towards him, mostly for show, and Thoros retreated willingly, like a sheep docilely being herded. “You want me on my knees sucking your cock? I might- if you'd stop growling, you grouchy old bear," he said, his earlier insult sounding more like an endearment now. 

Sandor was startled by the sincerity of Thoros's words. He was teasing, but there was warmth and promise in his words too. It abruptly occurred to Sandor that there was something appealing about Thoros. He was fetching in a way- he might have been handsome before time, hard living and excessive drink had lined his face. His smile was snaggle-toothed but friendly, and his eyes sparkled with liveliness in the moonlight. 

"So I can stare down at your bald skull while wondering if you're about to castrate me with your broken teeth?" he asked, more aggressively than he felt, and stepped into Thoros's space, forcing him back another step until the older man was pinned against the side of the cabin. Thoros's eyes widened and his hand went to the hilt of his sword, but he didn't pull it free. He didn't look afraid so much as cautious and his intrigued little smirk lingered at the edges of his mouth.

The snow drifted between them and the wind stirred their hair around their faces, even with the shelter the wall behind them provided. It was the chill of early winter- cold enough to tease at the devastating freeze to come- but Sandor felt warm and excited, his sorrow and anger melting away to be replaced by something he hadn't felt in a long time. “Would you have?” Sandor asked before he could think better of it, his sarcasm stripped away by a dangerous longing. Thoros tipped his head back, baring his throat and looking up at Sandor through his lashes, smiling like an imp. The coquettish gesture was surprisingly effective.

“Might be,” Thoros whispered back, and Sandor moved fully into his space until their chests brushed. He dropped his face to Thoros's neck, inhaling the aroma of him- rum, firewood and muskiness. Thoros might have trembled beneath him- he couldn't tell, but he did catch the slight intake of his breath and the softening of his posture as he swayed into his body.

On impulse, as he did so many things in his reckless life, Sandor sunk to his knees before Thoros into the wet pillow of snow at their feet. It hurt more than it had the last time he'd done such a thing, so many years before. He put his hands on Thoros's hips and looked up at him, squinting through the fall of snowflakes, to see if he'd feel the touch of steel at his throat. 

Thoros's mouth was parted and his eyes were wide with surprise, but he looked far from protesting.

"Weren't expecting that, were you?" He dug his thumbs into Thoros's hips, the pads sinking into a thick layer of fabric and burrowing into thin skin and sharp bone. His brief lust and spontaneity were already morphing into doubt, though, as the snow beneath his knees melted and spread a chill up his thighs. His whole life he'd seen the fear and disgust in men and women's eyes, so why should Thoros be any different?

"Clegane," Thoros breathed, oblivious to Sandor's changeable mood, and reached a hand for the good side of his face. On instinct Sandor flinched away, glaring up at him, and Thoros withdrew his hand with a placating gesture.

The situation was becoming awkward, for if Sandor was not on his knees for a purpose then why remain? And if he stood now without completing his task, would he be able to let Thoros walk away to taunt him about it another day? Grimly, Sandor moved his hands to the laces at Thoros's waist and pulled at them, knowing he'd be stopped if Thoros did not want him to, and not sure what he would do if he was turned away. He was a little afraid of his own reaction. Afraid for Thoros. Instead the priest put a hand to Sandor's shoulder, the thumb on his right hand brushing against Sandor's neck in a simple caress.

Sandor shot him a warning look, uncomfortable with the intimacy, then looked back to where he'd revealed Thoros's small clothes. The scent wasn't fresh, for none of them had bathed in too long, but Sandor could see he was half hard beneath the fabric and it shot a bolt of lust through him. He yanked down the small clothes and revealed Thoros's cock. It was a respectable length and the exposure to the cold air didn't diminish it. 

Sandor framed his hand around Thoros's erection and the tickle of wiry ginger pubic hair against his palm was strangely arousing. The whores he'd been with had been plucked clean and it was an earthy reminder that the man he was with was not being paid to allow Sandor's touch.

Thoros sucked in a sharp breath at the indirect contact and his cock grew stiffer. "You smell like shit," Sandor told him, but he leaned in anyway, letting the rustic, masculine scent flood his nostrils.

"Like piss and horse sweat, I would think," Thoros said in a muffled sort of way. The hand on Sandor's shoulder was now squeezing and caressing. "Sandor, please,” he said, using Sandor's given name for the first time, and Sandor burrowed further into Thoros's warmth.

The scent wasn't actually that bad- they all took wet rags to their nethers when they camped near a water source, and when he pushed the filthy trousers out of the way Thoros smelled more arousing than not. He brushed his lips against the ginger hair and felt the moist slide of his cock against his cheek.

He distantly heard the thud of Thoros's shoulders hitting the back of the cabin and a soft intonation of his name again- his real name. 

Maybe it was the sound of his own name, so little used, or the desire clear in his voice, but Sandor had to close his eyes for a moment and breathe to collect himself. He glanced up at Thoros and found, to his confused pleasure, that Thoros was looking down at him intently, not closing his eyes so he might imagine Sandor was someone else.

Sandor smiled, briefly, and then angled Thoros's cock towards his mouth and took the tip inside. The taste and feel were so familiar, that he closed his eyes and moaned, memories he'd long suppressed coming to the forefront of his mind. With his tongue he explored the ridge of Thoros's cockhead, plump with blood and very warm, then swept the flat of his tongue up the tip, lapping up the bitter trace of moisture at the slit.

He opened his mouth wider and took Thoros in deeper, feeling the slide of tangy flesh over his tongue and feeling the tension in Thoros's thighs as he struggled not to be greedy and plunge inside. He curled his lips around his teeth and gave Thoros a proper suck and was rewarded with a low, heartfelt groan.

"Sandor," Thoros whispered throatily. Sandor lifted both hands back up to Thoros's hips to balance himself and threw himself into it, short, cautious bobs turning into the deep sucking he remembered from when he'd been younger. Saliva gathered at the corners of his mouth and wetted his beard but he did nothing stem its flow, knowing the wet slide would smooth the friction of their colliding flesh. He'd been good at this once- back before he'd been large enough to be feared and experimentation between adolescent boys was expected. Some of the boys hadn't minded his face, and the times he'd brought someone pleasure instead of pain were some of the few memories he had that didn't shame him. 

Sandor drew back, found Thoros still watching him hungrily, and then dove deeper, letting his cock brush against the back of his throat. He had to squeeze his eyes tightly to keep from gagging, but Thoros was shifting restlessly beneath him and his breathing was hoarse and desperate and it made Sandor feel alive in a way he hadn't in too long. While he worked his mouth on Thoros he used his hands to knead Thoros's abdomen and caress his testicles, his hands rough and unused to gentle touches, though Thoros didn't seem to mind.

"Sandor," Thoros whispered before long, trailing his fingers against Sandor's neck. When Sandor did not lift off of him Thoros sunk his fingers in his wispy brown hair instead, pulling slightly.

Sandor withdrew with a glower, shaking the priest's hand out of his hair and huffing. "Watch it," he growled, not liking anything that felt restraining.

Thoros looked entirely too contented to be anything but bemused by Sandor's prickliness. "You watch it," he said breathlessly, his lips soft and glistening with wetness and red with teeth marks. "I'm close." He put his hands back on Sandor's shoulders and Sandor let him, sure that he would not be fool enough to touch his face again.

"You didn't have to warn me," Sandor said, but not as harshly, and lowered his mouth back onto Thoros. It took only a few more long pulls through his tight lips and Thoros was crying out unashamedly and spurting into his mouth, his shot striking Sandor's palate and the back of his throat and his testicles tightening in Sandor's hand. It wasn't a good taste but he swallowed anyway, and licked Thoros's cock clean when it had stopped spasming on his tongue. It was with regret that Sandor pulled Thoros's small clothes and trousers back over him while Thoros trailed his hands over Sandor's broad shoulders.

Already, now that he was done, the temporary distraction was melting away. He'd killed an innocent farmer and his daughter again. Brother Ray was dead again. Sandor had seen terrors in the fire again. 

Thoros touched a finger to Sandor's good cheek and when he reluctantly looked up he found Thoros still gazing upon his face unflinchingly, no trace of disgust or smugness. There might have been fondness there, or gratitude, but Sandor was not familiar with either emotion enough to tell. 

He attempted to rise to his feet and found that his legs had cramped in the cold. “Fuck!” he barked as his joints cracked and the poorly healed broken bone in his thigh throbbed in protest. 

“Aching bones are the bitter reward of old age, eh?” Thoros asked, laughing softly, but getting an arm under Sandor's shoulder and helping him to his feet anyway. Thoros, an average sized man, seemed rather small under Sandor's arm and it did something to soften his encroaching gloom. Even knowing it would do no good, he had the strange urge to wrap his arm around Thoros and pull him close, to not let the brief intimacy they had experienced disappear.

“You tell me, you gray old cunt,” he muttered, for Thoros had at least ten years on him and Sandor was a young man still, by most standards. Not that he felt particularly young.

“Getting old is like a dry fuck in the arse,” Thoros said, grinning that snaggle-toothed grin up at Sandor. “Avoid it if you can.” 

Sandor took a laborious step towards the cabin and rolled his eyes, doubting either of them would see another name day. The next step was easier and they hobbled together back into the cabin, the cold wind burning their cheeks and hands.

Inside it was dark, the only light coming from the glowing embers around which the bedrolls were arranged and the cold blue light from the cabin's tiny windows. Thoros's own bed was nearest the fire, by Beric, while Sandor's was at the back, furthest from the flames that now held new terrors he'd never expected. Sandor began to move away, to let Thoros go to his own bed, but Thoros stopped him with a hand on his wrist.

“No,” he whispered, drawing Sandor to the back of the cabin, where Sandor had set up his bedroll away from the comradery of the Brotherhood.

It was dark, but Sandor could make out the soft outline of Thoros's hair and the shine in his eyes. He allowed Thoros to help him to his bedroll but roughly pushed him away when Thoros's hands went to his trousers. “Get off me,” he snarled in an undertone, not wishing for any member of the Brotherhood to awaken and witness the spectacle. “I didn't do that for a charity fuck.”

Thoros paused before reaching out for the laces of his trousers again. “Your trousers need to dry.” Sandor agreed with the logic of that, so he reluctantly allowed Thoros to strip them off him, along with his boots, and lay them aside to dry while they slept. When Thoros turned back to his small clothes Sandor did not push him away again.

“Thoros,” he murmured, but without enough heat to warn the priest off of him, more the growl of a contented guard dog. With a shuffle in the dark, Thoros lay down beside Sandor and pulled his blanket over both their bodies. 

“If I was ten years younger- and we had the oil to spare- I'd have ridden your cock until you roared, you old bear,” Thoros said warmly in the dark. Sandor sucked in a breath and felt, rather against his will, a quickening in his loins again. Thoros's breath was warm against his neck where the priest's head nestled against his shoulder, too close to the burned side of his face for comfort. His cool, roughened hand brushed against Sandor's lower abdomen, caressing the thatch of pubic hair that spread from his groin and tapered up to his navel. The warmth and the closeness made a shiver of desire go through Sandor and he turned his head just a little so that his temple rested against Thoros's forehead. 

“It's been awhile but I don't think I've lost the knack for this, at least,” Thoros murmured, and Sandor shuddered, his belly rippling beneath the soft touch. It had been so long since he'd had any sort of release, even from his own hand, that he'd almost thought that phase of his life had prematurely passed him by. He hadn't been particularly sorry for it, either- what good had his unrequited lusts ever done him? But beneath Thoros's seeking touch he felt himself begin to harden. When it was apparent Sandor would not throw him off Thoros slid his hand lower until his chilly fingers wrapped snugly around Sandor's half hard length. They both breathed in sharply.

“There we are,” Thoros said in a satisfied sort of way. “You're big as a bear too, aren't you?”

“Don't ruin it with whore's talk,” Sandor grumbled, but tipped his head back and sighed when Thoros began to stroke him luxuriously, his soft touch making his length grow plump and full. Sandor forgot about his bitterness and anger and fear, if only for the moment, eyes closed in the dark and allowing himself to just feel another human's touch.

“Fuck,” he grunted, his hips kicking of their own volition, thrusting into Thoros's too-soft touch and Thoros rewarded him with a squeeze that made his balls light up with excitement. The touch was too dry and chafed a little, but it felt too good to stop. Sandor lifted his head to try and see Thoros's face, and found the man smirking at him in the dark, his features only just visible in the dim light.

Thoros smiled wider when he caught Sandor watching him and then got up on an elbow so he could lean over Sandor. Thoros bent down and pressed his whiskery, rum flavored lips to Sandor's. Sandor's lips parted with a gasp of shock. He could not remember the last time he'd been kissed- perhaps he never had. 

It wasn't pleasant- their breath was sour, their teeth fuzzy- but it was _good_. He brought up a hand without thinking and tangled it in Thoros's thinning hair, pressing his face closer until their lips pinched between their teeth. Sandor could feel Thoros grin against his mouth while his hand jacked Sandor ruthlessly below. Sandor got his other arm around Thoros and pulled him in tight and felt his feebly stirring cock pressing against Sandor's hip. The simple reciprocity of it- the feeling, no matter how fleeting, of being wanted, was enough to push him over the edge.

Sandor groaned against Thoros's mouth and surged into his hand, bucking into his grasp and spilling explosively between them, the ecstasy of it all the more intense for having been so long prolonged. The intensity of it had Sandor clenching his teeth to hold in his shouts of pleasure and his body shook with the sudden release of tension. Thoros kissed and pumped him through it, laughing softly in between the messy clashing of teeth and the thrashing of Sandor's hips. When Sandor had at last stilled, his breath ragged and his body limp, Thoros pulled back and looked down at him. Sandor thought he would say something unwelcome and tensed in anticipation, but Thoros only watched him, his eyes squinting to see in the darkness, looking for what Sandor could not guess. 

Whatever he found, he smiled to himself and then he kissed Sandor once more, gently this time, and withdrew, brushing Sandor's seed onto the tail of his own tunic and crawling back out from under the blankets. He watched Thoros pick his way over the restlessly slumbering brothers and Sandor wondered, for the first time, if anyone had seen or heard them. He saw Thoros whisper something to Beric, who had lifted his head, and then Sandor rolled over in his side away from them, alone with his troubling thoughts once more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have any personal experience with alcohol withdrawal, so all of my information has been gleaned from the internet, so... not sure how accurate it is. Also, I'm not sure Thoros has actually had the opportunity of late, due to limited rum resources, to be an extremely heavy drinker, so I'm probably just exaggerating his symptoms for the sake of drama. Just go with it, okay?

The first week of imprisonment was hardest on Thoros. Within a day he was agitated and fretful, and within three his pleas for rum had lost their playful edge and had grown baldly desperate, even when it was obvious their jailers would show him no pity. Soon he was so weakened he did little but lay in their bed of straw and shiver with fever. 

And Beric, the cuntiest cunt in a world full of absolute cunts, just watched his friend impassively as the priest vomited, shook and sweated out a fever that didn't seem in any danger of abating.

On the fourth day Sandor gave in to his reluctant instincts and took over the care of the priest, huffing out an aggravated growl at Beric.

"Aren't you going to do anything?" Sandor asked him. "He's your friend!"

"The Lord of Light is not done with Thoros yet," Beric said. "Our mission-"

" _Fuck_ your mission!" Sandor said with passion, and crouched down next to Thoros, his joints creaking and snapping like dead branches under the weight of snow. The old priest tried to smile at him, but he was too green to quite pull it off. Sandor put a hand against Thoros's cheek and found the skin too warm, even as Thoros shuddered with cold.

Sandor was no maester- he knew how to kill men, not heal them- but it seemed to him that if Thoros was shivering he should be warmed up. He settled into the straw beside the priest and then pulled the man's body up into his lap, his arms easily cradling his back. Thoros's head flopped back against his bicep in a wave of stringy, dingy ginger hair. He smelled bad, but Sandor smelled even worse, so that didn't matter. It was as close as Sandor had been to him since _that night,_ and remembrance rippled through Sandor, leaving prickled skin in its wake.

If Thoros thought of it as well he gave no indication, sighing instead and allowing his eyes to close over yellowed and blood shot eyes. Sandor pulled the edges of his own cloak around Thoros and pulled him more snugly against his chest, sharing the only thing he could with Thoros: the heat of his own body. 

"If you die at least we'll have some peace," Sandor growled, for Beric's sake, but with his cloak shielding the two of them from prying eyes, he lifted a hand and brushed oily, faded hair off of Thoros's face with as much tenderness as his oversized paw could muster. 

"Don't die, you fucker. You can't leave me with that unnatural cunt," he said in a lower voice, this one meant for only one pair of ears. He rested his palm again Thoros's clammy, perspiring face and Thoros's eyes rolled up at him weakly. His cheeks and eyes were unnaturally hollow. When he brushed his fingers against Thoros's throat he could feel the rapidity of his beating heart, as though it were racing towards its end.

"Knew I'd pay for my sins one day," Thoros muttered, his head shifting limply against Sandor's arm. "I just thought I'd be too drunk to care when I did," he said, then his face contorted in a grimace and he only just rolled out of the way in time to avoid splattering Sandor's chest with his vomit. As it was a bit splashed on the edges of his cloak and Sandor sighed in an aggrieved fashion, though he did not relinquish his hold on Thoros.

"I knew I should have eaten your fucking stew," Sandor grunted, but held Thoros's hair out of his face as he dry heaved into the straw beneath them. As if Sandor hadn't glared at and berated Thoros until the man had reluctantly eaten his portion. 

"It's not the lack of rum that will kill him," Beric said from the corner he was propped against. "It'll be the lack of water, especially if he spews everything he eats."

Sandor shot Beric a malignant look, but snatched the bucket of water from Beric when the should-be-dead cunt shuffled over to Sandor with it clutched in his bandaged hand.

"He's your friend, you should water him," he snarled, but made no move to relinquish his hold on the gagging and trembling priest in his arms. Instead he clutched Thoros and stared at Beric challengingly, daring him to try it.

Beric opened his mouth to reply, then wisely seemed to rethink whatever he'd been about to say. That was just as well, since Sandor was in the murdering mood and Beric would have been his first choice. 

Instead Beric closed his mouth and silently bundled up the soiled straw at Sandor's feet and took it over to the waste bucket in the corner furthest from their meager bedding.

"Finally you shut your hole," Sandor said meanly, not caring about keeping the peace. "You aren't going to tell me that this is the Lord of Light's will? That we aren't going to freeze to death in a fucking cell one hundred feet from our destination?" Beric said nothing, just handed Sandor the wooden spoon they used to eat the thin, pitiful stew that arrived in the cell twice daily. "Well thank fuck for that. I'm sick of hearing about the Cunt of Light."

And dear gods he was. Beric barely said anything anymore that didn't revolve around the Lord of Light's mission.

Thoros wheezed out a chuckle in Sandor's arms but didn't protest when Sandor began to grudgingly trickle water into his fetid mouth. That was also just as well. Sandor would not have had any problem with holding the weakened priest down and forcing the water down his ungrateful gullet.

"There's not much left of Beric beyond the Lord of Light's will," Thoros said between mouthfuls. He glanced over at his old friend and they shared a sad, understanding look. "Be patient," Thoros said more softly, urging peace and pity on Sandor even in his lessened state, and Sandor felt an unwelcome stirring of guilt. 

Beric didn't seem offended by Thoros's words, as though he knew the truth of the words and he'd come to accept them. Or perhaps there wasn't enough left of him to care. "I've died too many times. I'm stretched thin. It's the Lord's will that keeps me alive."

"He's not who he once was," Thoros said, and allowed Sandor to spoon more water into his mouth.

"I didn't like him before either," Sandor muttered.

**

Thoros began to get better after a week in the cells, but he didn't regain the easy charm of before. Sandor and Beric, always charmless, grew even more withdrawn and surly as the days passed until they would spend days with no more than a dozen words exchanged between them. 

The cold drew them together out of necessity and they spent most of their time huddled together on the straw, sharing what warmth they could, and sleeping most of the day to pass the time, like hibernating bears. The few hours of daylight that trickled in through the cell's only window illuminated their growing shabbiness and filth, and the deadening of their spirits, so Sandor took to spending the few hours of daylight looking out into the frosty white sky through their window instead of the drawn, gray faces of his companions.

By the time Jon Snow arrived to rescue them from their cell Sandor could not have said if a month had passed, or six.

**

There was a bed in the small room that the Wildling leader had reluctantly provided him with the night before they would venture out into the great wilderness beyond the wall, but more importantly, there was a fire and Sandor lay down as near to it as he dared, soaking up the warmth like a sponge soaking up water. He was almost asleep on the thick fur rug, for he seemed to do little else, when the opening of his door aroused instincts he'd almost thought deadened by cold. He was scrambling to his knees and grabbing the sword that had been returned to him before he realized it was Thoros in his doorway, and not an enemy.

At least, he _hoped_ Thoros wasn't his enemy.

Sandor relaxed his arm but did not lie back down or release the sword, instead observing Thoros warily as the old priest closed the door behind him and leaned back against the solid wood, returning Sandor's gaze with his own. His hair was still wet from the cold baths the Wildlings had provided them and beneath the layer of filth that had accumulated on Thoros's face his skin was as pale as the underbelly of a fish. 

Sandor knew he must look equally as wretched, but thankfully he could not see himself. 

Thoros was gray and gaunt as ever, but the sparkle seemed to have returned to his eyes and beneath his scraggly beard his mouth was quirked up in a disreputable smirk. Sandor stared at him suspiciously. "You got your rum, didn't you?" he asked, and tried not to feel disappointment at the priest's weakness. He just didn't relish the thought of holding Thoros's hair out of his face while he vomited again, he told himself.

Thoros grinned and pulled out his old wine skin from behind his back. "I won't say I haven't already had a tipple or two," he said gleefully.

More like a tipple or five, Sandor thought grimly, but took the leather pouch when Thoros offered it, if for no other reason than to leave less for the priest to drink. It burned on its way to his stomach and he coughed, both attracted to and repulsed by the sensation. He belched and the sweetness of the rum lingered at the back of his throat. He'd always preferred wine or ale, but it wasn't as though he'd been given a choice.

"I know they gave you your own room," Sandor said forbiddingly, and handed Thoros back the flask. He had a stirring of suspicion as to Thoros's purpose, but he tried not to believe it, lest it be proven false. And some part of him that protected his pride threw up defenses, daring Thoros to try and breach them. "So why the fuck are you in mine? Aren't you as tired of my fucking ugly face as I am of yours?"

"Not so ugly," Thoros said and brought the pouch back up to his lips, his eyes still trained on Sandor. Sandor was too uncertain to reply and Thoros seemed to take it as an opening. He walked slowly over to Sandor and when Sandor did not growl at him Thoros gently put his fingers to the hand Sandor had clutched around the hilt of his restored sword. Barely daring to breathe, Sandor allowed Thoros to push the sword out of his grasp and away- not so far Sandor could not reach it, but far enough away Thoros would have warning before Sandor lunged for it.

On instinct Sandor sat back on his heels, creating a lap that Thoros took advantage of by kneeling to straddle Sandor's thighs. His hips shifted, rolling in Sandor's lap and pressing their awakening cocks together through their trousers. They both sucked in a sharp breath when they came in contact, for though they'd spent the last two months huddling together for warmth, this was a different sort of touch entirely. Without conscious thought Sandor brought up his hands and gripped Thoros's wasted arms through the thick, rough spun clothing the wildlings had given them, wishing he were touching skin. 

Thoros lifted the pouch to his lips again, but stopped when Sandor scowled at him. "Don't," he snarled, a part of him selfishly unwilling to share the moment with Thoros's drink.

Thoros smirked at him playfully. "I'm used to it. I can still perform, doesn't matter how drunk I am," he said, as though to reassure Sandor's concerns.

Anger flared in Sandor and he knocked Thoros's hand away from his face, forcing Thoros to grapple to keep from dropping the rum. "If you can't fuck me sober then get out," Sandor snarled, his lust giving way to doubt again. He'd thought Thoros had been sober enough the first time, but perhaps his recollections of that were tainted by what he'd wished to believe. 

"Oh," Thoros said, his eyes wide, realizing what Sandor had really meant. He did not argue anymore, only capped the flask and set it aside before tentatively drawing his arms around Sandor's tense shoulders. 

"I don't have to drink to-" Thoros began, but Sandor lost patience with him and whatever placating words came out of his mouth.

"Shut the fuck up," he snapped, and lunged forward to stopper up his spewing mouth with his own lips.

Thoros's lips parted for him immediately and his body curled into Sandor, seeking as much contact as possible. His mouth tasted of warm rum and beneath that the bitter wood the wildlings used to scrub their teeth clean. Thoros moaned and the vibrations of it hummed between their lips and teeth. 

Sandor didn't know how to kiss, not really, but Thoros didn't seem to notice or care. He threaded his fingers through Sandor's clean, damp hair and mauled Sandor's mouth with equal enthusiasm while below his hips writhed, grinding their cocks together through too many clothes. 

Too many clothes.

"Get your clothes off now if you don't want them torn off," Sandor warned darkly, his tone serious enough that Thoros sprang off his lap and began wriggle out of his clothing without protest.

Sandor followed, less spry on his broken leg, but grimly determined. He pulled his tunic off roughly and then pushed his trousers and small clothes down in a single motion, exposing his nude body to the tepid air before Thoros had managed to pull off his boots. The temptation was there, to rip the fabric away from Thoros's skinny body, so Sandor stepped away to control himself, moving instead to the bed and crawling in. He propped an arm under his head and watched Thoros as he pulled his other boot off and moved his hands to the ties of his trousers.

Thoros had once been a stout man- the little wriggles of pale pink stretched skin left their marks around his belly and thighs, but the years had not been kind to whatever Thoros had once been. His skin hung a little loosely around his wiry frame, and the hair that lightly covered his body was faded and graying. Sandor could see his ribs peeking beneath his skin and his elbows and knees were knobbly and protuberant. But all Sandor could think was that Thoros was lovely in the dim, warm light of the fire. He was lovely, like a half starved, aged lion who retained a glimmer of the majesty and beauty of its youth.

When Thoros had shimmied out of his trousers he followed Sandor up onto the bed, a predatory gleam in his eyes. He crawled right back into his former position, straddling Sandor's laps and bringing their groins flush again. Thoros smirked down at him, and traced a palm over Sandor's thickly furred chest. Sandor had once been bulky with muscle, sleek and well fed from the Lannister's table, but now he was lean and hard. But he was powerful, too. He hadn't starved long enough for his muscles to waste away, and it was clear Thoros was not displeased. 

"I once promised that I was going to ride you until you roared," Thoros said, leering down at Sandor. 

Sandor's breath caught in his throat. Yes, he remembered that as well, but he'd little expected it to ever happen. Only in his mind had the possibility taken hold, when he was weak enough to allow himself to imagine and regret what could have been. "You also said if you were ten years younger, old man," he said gruffly. "Think you can take it?"

Thoros grinned outright at that. He reached beneath himself and grasped Sandor's heavy, thick prick and held it in his palm. "Oh, it's a big cock, I'll grant you that. But I do like a challenge," he said. He lowered himself so the head was poised against his hole.

"Wait!" Sandor barked, latching onto Thoros's wrist to stop him. "You dumb cunt, are your brains addled? I'll rip you in two." 

"Bear grease," Thoros declared, and when Sandor stared at him uncomprehendingly, Thoros moved his hand up so that Sandor's fingers brushed against Thoros's hole. To Sandor's surprise he found Thoros soft and slick, and when he cautiously inserted a finger he found him loose. "It's what the wildlings use when they fuck. I just asked the wildling who brought my clothes and he brought some to me, easy as you please. That's why it took me so long to come find you. I didn't think you'd be patient enough to prepare me- or that I'd be patient enough once I got here."

Thoros rummaged around through the blankets and pulled out a little twist of leather Sandor had not seen him bring to the bed. The priest untwisted the little leather packet and presented a glob of yellowish grease for Sandor's inspection. Sandor grimaced in distaste, but did not argue when Thoros generously scooped the grease into his hand and then slathered it on Sandor's cock, giving him a grope for good measure when he was done that made Sandor grunt and jerk his hips. 

Smirking, Thoros grasped Sandor's cock firmly at the base and then moved back into position again, slowly lowering his slim body onto Sandor. Sandor held his breath with anticipation. It took what little reserves of patience Sandor had left not to grab his hips and slam him down onto him, so he gripped the headboard tightly to control himself. He didn't want to hurt Thoros, but he could feel the potential, simmering under his skin. Violence, even now, was so natural to him and so close to the surface. But he felt an unexpected tenderness for Thoros that appeared to be stronger than his aggression. 

Thoros was grunting and grimacing as he worked his way down onto Sandor. His stringy thighs trembled and his thin chest heaved. His arsehole, wrapped around Sandor's cock, was almost too tight for comfort. 

"You could have fucked me," Sandor said, frowning up at the priest. He didn't doubt his ability to take Thoros's smaller cock, and the idea was not unappealing. It had been more than twenty years since he'd had a cock in his arse, but that hadn't necessarily been because he didn't desire it. "You still could." 

Thoros rolled his eyes. "Don't underestimate me, Clegane," he said, and threw his head back, his eyes shut in concentration. Sandor lay beneath him, still aroused but tense, as Thoros finally seated himself on Sandor's prick. After a moment of adjustment Thoros began to rotate his hips gradually, grinding down on Sandor rather than thrusting, while taking his own cock in his greasy hand and beginning to stroke himself back to life. 

Sandor could not resist touching Thoros, though he made himself keep his palms light as they rested on Thoros's bony hips. The slow grind of his arse on Sandor's cock was a delicious, drawn out tease that Sandor wouldn't have minded experiencing for hours. But when Thoros opened his blud eyes and leaned over Sandor's chest and began to speed up his movements, Sandor was grateful for that too. Thoros cupped Sandor's teats, his thumbs idly flicking against his nipples while his hips began to surge back and forth with more purpose, spearing Sandor's cock in Thoros's wet hole. The noises they made were obscene and wonderful; wet, greasy squelching and harsh panting breath; the slap of testicles on skin and the creak of joints and the rustle of the straw bedding beneath them.

"Old bear." Thoros's voice was dark and sensual and somehow heavy in the air. His jagged teeth glinted in the firelight. Sandor gripped his hips more firmly, his control slipping as his passion rose. "You can move."

Sandor glared at him, but when he spoke his voice was uncertain, not aggressive. "I'll hurt you."

Thoros laughed. "I don't break that easily, old bear." 

Almost as though it were someone else doing it, Sandor's knees came up and he dug his heels into the bedding below and surged up sharply into Thoros.

The priest writhed and groaned. "Fuck, yes, Sandor," he barked, and Sandor, finally, let his mind rest and his body take over. He gripped Thoros's hips to keep him still and he thrust up into him, his cock drilling into him over and over, hard enough to make the bed creak. Thoros curled over him and clung to his chest, their breaths and moans mingling inches apart as their bodies collided. Sandor was gripping Thoros's arse hard enough to bruise, prying apart his buttocks to sink in as far as he could, to the root, to be swallowed up by Thoros's warmth. And gods be praised -yes, even the Lord of Fucking Light- it was so good Sandor _did_ roar, just as Thoros had promised he would. He bellowed out his triumphant release as his cock erupted inside Thoros in an orgasm so intense it made his legs shake and his back arch until it cracked.

When Sandor finally stilled Thoros was still squirming hungrily on him, unsatisfied. 

"Up here," Sandor croaked hoarsely, and pulled Thoros off his tender cock and up his chest. He tipped back his head and parted his lax mouth and urged Thoros over his face. "Fuck my mouth," he offered, and Thoros sunk past his lips with a groan of relief. Sandor let Thoros fuck away, his cock striking the back of his throat and his testicles slapping against his chin. Sandor could even feel the slimy warmth of his own seed oozing out of Thoros's arse hole and into his beard and sliding over his throat as Thoros pumped desperately into his mouth, but he was mellow enough to think that even that felt like a gift from the gods. It was overwhelming and uncomfortable, but that was good too.

Thoros quickly gave his own howl of release, his hands gripping Sandor's thin hair too tightly, and pulled back just in time to ejaculate on Sandor's face. Sandor gave him only a moment to bask in his pleasure before he pushed Thoros to the side and brought up an edge of the blanket to wipe his face, throat and chest. "Fucker," he muttered while Thoros laughed and panted. "Come in my mouth next time," he said while he tried to scrub the greasy jizz out of his eyebrows and beard.

Thoros rolled over to lie flush against his side, ignoring the scowl Sandor shot him when he lay his arm over Sandor's heaving belly. "Next time?" Thoros asked, his breathless voice soft. 

Sandor froze, realizing he'd made assumptions he had no business making. That was the problem with orgasms- they gave you unrealistic ideas. Sandor broke out of Thoros's hold on him and rolled to face the other direction, his relaxation draining from his body fast and that dangerous self doubt welling up to take its place.

Ignoring Sandor's mood or unaware of it, Thoros curled up against his back, his sticky, half hard cock nestling up against Sandor's arse and his arm coming around to pull Sandor up against his chest. Thoros stroked his hand through the hair on Sandor's chest, working in the revolting concoction of seed and bear grease, and pressed his whiskery face against Sandor's back. "Next time maybe you'll come in my mouth. Or you'll come with my cock up your arse."

Sandor's anger faded just as quickly as it had seized him. He relaxed into Thoros's arms, and allowed a brief smile to flash across his face since Thoros could not see him. "You're too old to be so optimistic," he said. "We won't live long enough for any of that."

Thoros punished him by giving his chest hair a sharp tug, then forgave him immediately after with a kiss to his shoulder. "I don't know," Thoros said, his voice becoming slow and sleepy. "The Lord of Light has been good to me all my life. I don't believe He would be cruel enough to give me you only to take you away so soon."

Sandor found that he could not speak until long after Thoros's breath had evened out into soft, whistling snores that brushed gently against his back. Cautiously, so as not to waken the priest, Sandor lifted a hand and stroked his fingers over the knuckles of the hand resting on his chest. "You don't know the gods, then, if you don't think they're cruel," he whispered in reply to Thoros's words long after they'd been spoken.


	3. Chapter 3

The smell of it didn't just fill his nostrils, but also his head, so vivid he could almost taste it on his tongue. He could feel it in his throat and in his lungs, choking him and filling him with clawing, writhing beasts of panic. Sandor retched, gagging on the smell and the sizzle of burning flesh. Thoros's burning flesh. Sandor wasn't even sure if he'd really heard it, for the roar of the wind buffeted around his head and whipped against his ear drums mercilessly, but he'd _felt it_ as though it had been his own skin beneath the flaming sword. 

And yet, despite the fear and disgust that filled him, he couldn't seem to help himself but watch, just as he hadn't been able to help but stare as the flaming polar bear had charged him. With bones that felt hundreds of years old, Sandor turned slowly to watch Beric cauterizing Thoros's wounds. 

It was worse than he'd imagined. Thoros, the man he'd begun to think of as _his_ to protect, lay on the ground while Beric stood above him with a sword on fire. Thoros writhed weakly, his face twisted in pain. His flesh steamed in the cold air and blood made the snow around him pink and patchy.

A sudden, irrational rage unlike any Sandor had known in a long time seized him and before he'd even realized what he was doing he'd crossed the distance between them and shoved Beric off of Thoros with a mighty heave. The flaming sword came near enough to his face he felt a flare of heat before it was dislodged and was flung to the side. Sandor pushed again, this time harder and Beric stumbled back, falling to the snow. His one good eye was wide with surprise and he held an arm above his head in surrender, but his submission did nothing to penetrate the fog of Sandor's fury.

The sword he wore at his waist was in his hand before he realized what he was doing. His fingers curled around the hilt and the taste of blood filled his mouth.

“Clegane. Stop!” Thoros croaked, and then, when Sandor only lifted the sword to strike, Thoros screamed over the howl of the wind. “ _Sandor, no!_ ” 

Sandor faltered, doubt beginning to gnaw at the edges of his frenzy. What was he doing? Why did Beric need to die?

“Sandor, please.”

Sandor's shoulders were shaking, his breath coming in great, ragged whoops. He turned to look at Thoros and found that the old priest was, pitifully, trying to sit up and get to his feet. Blood leaked from his shoulder and the skin was scarlet and blistered from Beric's sword. 

Beric hadn't been attacking Thoros. He'd been cauterizing his wounds. Sandor shook his head, trying to fight his way through the fog that had descended over him since the moment the fiery bear had charged him. 

More of their party was watching him with mistrust, their hands on their swords, but Sandor didn't care about them. 

“Wait,” Sandor said, to keep the priest from rising, and when Thoros continued to struggle Sandor went to him. He sank to his knees beside Thoros and put a gloved hand to his cheek, as he had in the Eastwatch cell when Thoros had burned with fever.

“The fuck are you doing?” Sandor snarled around his clenched teeth. The smell of burnt skin was so strong that he could feel the urge to vomit tickling up his throat. “What the _fuck_ did you think you were doing?”

Thoros fell back on his elbows, panting, and Sandor's hand slipped down to his exposed neck. His face was white and there was a smear of blood at his mouth, as though he'd bitten his lip or his tongue. He watched Sandor warily, then nodded his head at the little crowd around them.

“I'm alright,” he told them. “I can go on.” He gave Sandor a significant look, then glanced at Sandor's hand on his throat. It wasn't a touch warriors shared, but Sandor did not withdraw his arm.

“I just need to warm up. Give me my rum, old bear,” Thoros said in an undertone and Sandor looked at him searchingly, looking for forgiveness or condemnation. Thoros was pale and sweating with pain, but beneath his wispy beard he managed a small, understanding smile that hurt Sandor almost as much as the smell of his burned skin.

Sandor didn't like the hold the rum had on Thoros, but he knew he was in no position to deny the man any comfort within his reach to grant. He retrieved the wine skin beside Thoros but when he picked it up it felt suspiciously light and he saw the cap had not been stoppered before it had been dropped. Thoros had held it when he'd been burned, which meant-

Thoros had dropped the wine skin when he'd tried to stand and defend his friend from Sandor's wrath. Sandor's eyes flew to Thoros, feeling almost as guilty over the spilled rum as he did for watching Thoros be attacked by the bear while doing nothing. 

“Do you have another?” Sandor asked, and Thoros's face fell.

“Fuck!” the priest moaned, seizing the wine skin and shaking it helplessly. He looked over at his side at the pale yellow stain in the snow. “My rum,” he said desolately.

“Well you lived without it once, you can do it again,” Sandor said gruffly, and stood up, to let Beric move back in. Thoros would have to have his wounds bandaged, but Sandor couldn't do it.

Beric gave him a cautious look, but moved forward when Sandor stepped out of his way. 

“Here,” Sandor said, reaching into the pack he wore on his back and drawing out a length of rough fabric they'd brought to be used as bandaging. He gave it to Beric, who took it with a nod.

Sandor knew he should apologize for his unwarranted attack, but he wouldn't do it. If Sandor could not even verbalize his regrets to Thoros, Beric had no chance of receiving so much as a kind look from Sandor.

Beric worked quickly, for they had little time to spare, and when he'd bandaged the wounds as best he could and bundled Thoros up in his furs again, Sandor stepped forward to help him to his feet.

Thoros looked a little green and unsteady, but he gave them a grim nod and followed them when the party began to hike again. Sandor did not speak to Thoros as they walked, but he kept an eye on him, making sure he did not fall too far behind or falter on rough terrain. 

**

As the sun was setting that evening, they huddled on the little rocky island at the center of the frozen lake, surrounded by the animated dead on all sides. In the twilight Sandor found Thoros. With no fire they were all desperately cold and exposed, but Thoros, in his weakened state, was the most vulnerable.

Sandor lay down on the rocks beside him and pulled Thoros's back against his chest, just as he'd done when the priest had shivered with fever in the Eastwatch cell. Beric and the ginger Wildling were watching them, but Sandor just glared back at them and then wrapped Thoros in the folds of his own cloak, covering both of their heads and shrouding them in darkness. He captured Thoros's feet between his legs, knowing extremities died of cold first, and then wrapped his arms tightly around Thoros's belly so that he covered as much of Thoros with the heat of his own body as was possible. 

So close together the smell of seared flesh permeated their little space, but Sandor breathed through his mouth and tried to ignore it.

Thoros looked back at him over his shoulder, squinting in the meager light the peaked in through the folds of Sandor's cloak.. His lips trembled but he managed a small grin. “They'll... know we're... f-fucking, if you k-keep this up,” he said through chattering teeth, his voice low. 

“If you're capable of fucking right now you're more of a man than I credited you with,” Sandor said and Thoros's shoulders shook weakly with faint laughter.

Sandor put their heads together, pressing his cold cheek against the top of Thoros's balding head. “We're all going to die. What difference does it make if they know?” he asked gloomily. 

He'd often been in situations where he was very likely to die, but this situation seemed most likely to be the one to finally finish him off. His admittedly limited imagination could simply not envision any way out for them. Maybe it _would_ be better to let Thoros die. Didn't they say that freezing was a kind death? But he couldn't. He _couldn't,_ not after he'd watched Thoros get mauled by a bear and stood by and done nothing. 

Sandor held Thoros tightly until the older man's tremors stilled. Sandor thought he'd be too cold to sleep and too paranoid with the army of the dead a short span of ice away, but soon enough the mental and physical exhaustion of the day overcame him.

As he was falling asleep, Thoros wriggled in his arms until he could look over his shoulder far enough to peer up into Sandor's face. “Sandor?” he whispered, and Sandor could almost believe there was a hint of humor in his wretched voice. “That bear was even grouchier than you are.”

Sandor's eyes flew open before narrowing in the dark. “Shut your hole and go to sleep,” he growled and reached up to tuck Thoros's head back under his chin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been suggested that Thoros didn't die from the bear attack but rather from the rum- something about alcohol drawing body heat away from your core, leading to freezing more quickly? I'm not a doctor, but I sure do like that theory, because it allows me a way to tweak canon only a little bit and keep Thoros alive.
> 
> That said, from the bear attack onward I will be changing things up as I see fit, so I guess at this point it's a canon divergence AU. I do plan on taking this story through to the ending of the war, but I'll have to wait until the seventh episode to see how much that influences the end game I have in my head- if at all. There will be two more chapters set during tonight's episode that I plan to release before the finale, so keep an eye out for that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewatched the episode and realized that Sandor was NOT wearing a cloak. I just can't compromise on Sandor's cloak, though! It's integral to keeping Thoros alive! So I'm keeping it.

After the first night whatever pride had remained in the hearts of the surly old warriors was frozen out by the cold. If anyone had sneered at Sandor and Thoros for huddling together in the night, they were laughing no more. The little group piled together like seals for warmth, their backs facing the wind and their bulky legs and feet stacked on top of each other in the middle of a circle. Their sides pressed along each other tightly and more than one pair of arms and hands were entangled under the privacy of fur cloaks.

Sandor and Beric bracketed Thoros, both their arms wrapped around the priest's shivering back, while Tormund, Jon and Jorah curled around them on either side, their breaths steaming out of their mouths and their cheeks red and burnt by wind. 

Jon leaned under the arm of Tormund, somehow looking remote and brooding instead of like a frozen and stinking animal, like the rest of them. Bloody gorgeous cunt. Sandor wanted to break his nose. 

Mostly they didn't speak. It was too cold to speak, and what was there to speak of? They all knew how fucked they were, how unlikely it was that Daenerys could possibly reach them before they starved, froze to death or the lake froze over enough for the rest of the wights to reach them. 

They sat and they stared at the wights, or they sat and they slept, propped up against each other's bodies. They roused themselves when the sun made its brief appearance during the day and they ate dried venison strips and chewed on chips of the frozen lake, their water pouches having long frozen. Sometimes one or two of them would shuffle along the slippery rocks in circles to prevent their limbs from freezing, but Sandor moved no more than to walk to the edge of their island they'd designated the latrine and take a dry shit, or occasionally go over to the captured wight and give it a kick to relieve his boredom.

“We've survived three days” Jorah Mormont stated when the sun had risen as far into the sky as it ever did so far North, his voice the first to break the day's stillness. His eyes were up to the sky as he chewed on chips of ice, as though he were imagining Daenerys swooping down on her dragons to rescue them. Sandor wasn't sure if he admired Jorah's optimism in the face of almost certain death or pitied the hope that was doomed to be crushed. He decided mostly he didn't give a fuck. 

“Three days,” Tormund Giantsbane agreed as he passed out the days first meal, an unappetizing array of venison jerky- for the fourth day in a row- and ice chips. 

“No wonder I've been shitting pellets,” Sandor groused as he took his portion. “I'm turning into a fucking deer.” 

“Then will you be able to outrun wights?” Tormund asked with a mischievous leer that did not fade when Sandor glared at him. 

“How long will it take the lake to freeze?” Jorah asked, eyeing the ring of the dead that surrounded their lake. 

Tormund tore off a stripe of his jerky with strong teeth, still grinning at Sandor. “Another day. Two, mayhaps.”

“And how fast can the Targaryen girl's dragon's fly?” Beric asked, lifting his head up from Thoros's shoulder.

“Fast,” Jorah said, but even he didn't sound confident. 

“Faster than lakes can freeze?” Beric said, his voice more contemplative than inquisitive. 

Sandor sighed and tore at his piece of rancid venison. It was revolting, but Sandor was too hungry to care if it tasted good. He wolfed his down without enthusiasm or comment until he realized that Thoros sat silently by his side, still clutching his jerky without bringing it to his mouth.

He swallowed his mouthful and glared at Thoros.

“Are your teeth going, old man?” he barked. “Eat!”

Thoros flinched, as though he'd been dozing off to sleep, and blinked up at Sandor confusedly. He reached out his glove with a trembling arm and held the jerky towards Sandor. “You are... an uncommonly large m-man...” His voice sounded vague and uncertain, as though he weren't completely aware of what was happening or what he was saying.

Sandor stared at Thoros with mounting concern. Thoros had been lethargic and weak for the past three days, but he'd remained lucid and this was the first time he'd refused food. As he often did, Sandor masked his worry with aggression. He pointed a finger at Thoros and glared. “You're eating that,” he said.

Thoros, unaware of the danger in Sandor's voice, tried to put it into Sandor's hand again. “I'm n-not hungry.” His teeth were chattering so much he could barely speak and Sandor's fear ratcheted up another notch, along with his anger at his inability to do anything for Thoros. 

Sandor roughly pushed Thoros's hand away and then grabbed the front of his furs. 

“Clegane,” Jorah Mormont warned, beginning to rise to Thoros's defense before Sandor shot him a look so malevolent he paused, half standing with his hand stretched out to restrain him.

“Mind your fucking business, cunt,” he snarled, and suddenly Sandor had everyone's attention. They shuffled where they were arranged, sitting up straighter and watching him warily, as they had when Sandor had raised his sword against Beric. 

Sandor pulled Thoros by the fur so that his face was inches away from Sandor's. Thoros's eyes were widening, the seriousness of Sandor's fury finally penetrating whatever fog had descended over him. “You're eating that if I have to chew it for you and spit it down your throat,” he said, and grabbed Thoros's wrist, bringing the jerky up to Thoros's mouth. “ _Eat!_ ”

Thoros yanked his arm away with a mutinous glare, but when Sandor continued to stare at him he sulkily began to tear strips off the jerky. He ate slowly, long after everyone else had finished, but under Sandor's beady eye Thoros finished it all, swallowing the last bite at last.

When Thoros was done he looked over at him, his teeth chattering but his eyes narrowed and sly. “Happy now, old bear?” he asked, his voice much too intimate to be unintentional. 

Beric smiled sadly at them and Tormund flashed a grin at Sandor, as though to say _I knew you liked dick._

Sandor flushed and looked away. “Not until you're dead,” he said, and the little group began to settle again, now that the meal was over and the most unpredictable member of the party seemed to have settled.

Thoros, however, wasn't done baiting Sandor.

“You're a puzzle, Clegane,” Thoros said after a while, his raw, scratchy voice a little livelier, either from the food or the thrill of teasing Sandor.

“Am I?” Sandor asked, certain he wouldn't like this- particularly within the hearing of the others, who he was sure only pretended to be ignoring them. It wasn't like there was anything better for them to do.

“You're always telling me we'll die-”

“We will,” Sandor interrupted.

“But you won't let me die in peace,” Thoros concluded.

Although no one had been speaking or obviously listening, the sudden stillness of the group indicated everyone's attention. Even Jon Snow looked away from brooding over the wights to look at Thoros. It was the first time Thoros's inevitable death had been spoken of aloud, and everyone held their breaths so as not to miss a word. 

Thoros was dying, there was no question of that. They all were, of course, but Thoros would be first. And it made Sandor furious, to think that one day soon he'd wake up to a cold corpse in his arms- a corpse he'd had a hand in making, through his own cowardice. 

“Peace,” Sandor scoffed angrily. “Cunts die in peace. Die fighting, priest, or don't die at all.”

Thoros mustered the energy to smile at Sandor a little, his crooked yellow teeth somehow charming in such a bleak setting. He was haggard and gray, but there was something about that smile- something that made Sandor hungry to be the recipient of more such smiles. 

“You've a more poetical nature than I realized, old bear.” His teeth rattled together and he shivered constantly, but there was a warmth in his voice that Sandor very rarely heard addressed to him. He wanted more of that, too.

Sandor rolled his eyes, and tried to ignore the tightening in his stomach. 

“I'll break your teeth if you don't stop that chattering,” he said gruffly, to cover his embarrassment. “Get over here.” He pulled Thoros into his lap so he would not have to sit on the cold ground, even though his bony arse dug in to Sandor's thighs and his feet poked his ankles. He put Thoros's head against his shoulder, as he would comfort a child, and wrapped him up tightly in his cloak, right up to the balding top of his head. He could feel Thoros's chest expand with a deep breath and then the priest slumped back against his chest.

Then Sandor grabbed hold of Beric's cloak and dragged him across the rocks so that his body leaned against Thoros's side. Beric looked up at Sandor from his position, his one good eye a little too understanding. 

“Shut the fuck up,” he muttered, and glared ferociously at the rest of the group, lest they have something to say that would end in Sandor cutting their throats.

**

By the next morning Thoros lay in Sandor's arms like a wet, frozen slab of meat. His breath rattled and choked in his throat, a sign that an illness had begun to form in his lungs that would kill him even if the cold or the wights didn't.

Despite Sandor's threats, he only turned his head away fretfully when Sandor tried to make him eat or drink. Even his shivering had abated, as though his body could not muster up the energy for even that.

Sandor felt as though a vice were squeezing around his chest. His eyes stung and his throat ached as he looked down at Thoros's gray face.

It seemed terrible, somehow, that the old drunk could have lived through a fucking bear attack, but die of cold and lung illness days later. Why couldn't he have been taken out the way any warrior wanted to, in battle? There was no dignity in a slow, lingering death. 

Sandor watched him helplessly, growing more frustrated until he'd had all he could bear.

“Up,” he snapped, and tilted Thoros's head off of his shoulder. He brought up his hand and propped it under Thoros's chin, supporting his head so he had no choice but to face in the direction of the army of the dead. “Wake up. _Look_ at them, you worthless cunt.”

“Leave me... be, S-Sandor” Thoros protested. His lips were dry and cracked and his voice was little more than a wheeze, as though he'd been shouting for hours.

“Clegane, don't,” Beric said sadly. He put a hand to Sandor's shoulder, perhaps to comfort him, but Sandor shrugged him off angrily.

“Thoros, look at those wights. If you die you become one of _them._ You want that?” Sandor stabbed a finger at the solid wall of dead soldiers that surrounded their lake and then looked back to see that Thoros was watching them blearily.

“You aren't doing him a kindness, Clegane,” Mormont said and this time he didn't back down when Sandor glared at him. His lips were pinched but his gaze was steely. 

“Kindness? Fuck kindness! Thoros doesn't need me to be _kind._ He needs me to keep him alive,” he shouted.

Sandor could tell that no one wanted to admit that Thoros had likely moved beyond that point- as if he didn't know already.

Thoros watched the wights, oblivious to the tension growing among the group, before obviously deciding that there was a little more life left in him after all. Wearily he gripped Sandor's arm and levered himself to a more upright position. Slowly, like a man thirty years older than he really was, he took the jerky from Sandor's hand and began to eat at a glacial pace.

When he was done he turned to Sandor. “Take me closer to them,” he said, nodding his head at the wights.

“Thoros-” Beric began, but Thoros cut him off with a shake of his head. 

“I want to see them... closer,” Thoros said, gasping pitifully. 

Thinking it might inspire Thoros to live a little bit longer, Sandor ignored Beric's disapproving frown and climbed stiffly to his feet. It took Thoros a long time to get his frozen limbs to obey his commands, and when Sandor walked him closer to the edge of their rocky island he practically had to drag him, the one arm clutched around his back holding most of his wasted weight.

When they were as close as they could safely get to the edge, Sandor sat down and pulled Thoros into his lap so his thin back was against his chest, then wrapped them up in his cloak so that only their heads were exposed. The dead watched them, but somehow he found the blank, emotionless faces easier to bear than the sympathetic and knowing looks the rest of the group gave him.

“I didn't... really want to see them,” Thoros admitted when they'd settled. “I just wanted... to be alone. With you.”

Sandor glanced back over his shoulder. They were as far away from the group as they could get and over the wind they wouldn't be overheard. The warriors were looking in the other direction, clearly out of respect for their privacy. They weren't exactly alone, but it was close enough for Sandor.

“You have to live, Thoros” Sandor said, his voice much more gentle now that no one could hear him. He cradled Thoros's head against his shoulder and pressed his cheek against his cold, bare temple. “Do you want to be one of those fuckers? Jon Snow says the Dragon bitch will rescue us, if you hold on just a little longer.” Sandor wasn't sure he really believed that was possible, but for Thoros he could pretend.

“I... don't _want_ to die.” Thoros said slowly, shaking his head. 

“So don't die,” Sandor replied, as though it were as simple a solution as that.

They were silent for a long time, and Sandor thought Thoros had fallen asleep. Maybe he had, but after a while, when the sun was lower in the sky, Thoros turned his head slowly so he could look up at Sandor's face.

“If you don't die, what will you do... when this is over?”

“Fucking unlikely,” Sandor said sourly and Thoros sighed.

“Just imagine it... Sandor.”

It seemed a small thing to do, to humor a dying man, so Sandor shrugged mournfully. “I'll go back to Eastwatch, see if my cell is still available.”

“No!” Thoros croaked, in exasperation. “When everything is... over. Cersei is dead... the dead are dead- permanently dead. Someone... who doesn't want to tear the country apart is on the.... throne. Peace... Prosperity... Summer...” The little speech seemed to have worn Thoros out. He gasped and shuddered and Sandor thought he was done speaking.

“Where would you go?” he finished finally. And, as Thoros knew Sandor's answer would be sarcastic, Thoros put his hand down on Sandor's thigh and squeezed. “Just tell me, old bear. I want to... imagine something sweet.”

Sandor swallowed and pushed his grief back. Why should he care if one more old man died?

“I thought I might go to Essos, once. Join the Second Sons.” He'd once thought to take the wolf girl with him, but he wouldn't tell Thoros that. It was bitter, the memory and the missed opportunity. They were both hateful fuckers, but there had been something irrepressible about Arya that he'd never admit to anyone he'd liked a little. They'd have done alright in Essos, he thought, though fuck only knew what the girl would have done. She wasn't the type to play devoted daughter for long. 

But then, perhaps it was for the best. If Jon Snow was to be believed, both of his sisters had somehow managed to make their way back to Winterfell. They'd probably die too before the wights were done with Westeros, but at least they'd die in the home of their ancestors. 

“And... now?” Thoros prompted, and Sandor realized he'd fallen into silent contemplation.

“If Gregor was dead I'd go back to Celgane's Keep,” he said, the words out before he'd realized he was going to say them. He'd never admitted that to anyone- he'd barely even acknowledged the desire to himself. “See my mother and sister's graves. Dig up my father's bones and piss on them. Try to... clean up some of the shit my father and brother left behind.”

Thoros craned back to look at Sandor again. The deep wrinkles in his forehead were expressive and his eyes were warm and accepting. 

There was something about Thoros that didn't irritate Sandor like most people did. He didn't feel the urge to hurt Thoros just for daring to look at his face. He liked it when Thoros looked at him, because it felt like he was seeing something other than Sandor's size, his scars or his abrasive manner.

“Doesn't matter,” Sandor said heavily, somehow unable to look away from Thoros's eyes, even though it made him uncomfortable to speak the words to someone so intimately. “No one in that part of the country would relish the sight of a Clegane coming back. The Keep's probably fallen to ruin. Or maybe the peasants burned it to the foundation. I wouldn't fucking blame them.”

“Maybe not,” Thoros offered, his voice little more than a dry rustle in the wind.

Sandor wanted to know what Thoros would do, if he lived, but the priest was fading. His eyelids were sagging and the breath wheezed in his chest like a leaky bagpipe. 

Sandor's eyes burned and his throat felt tight. He was afraid and angry and had no outlet for his helplessness. Even as he clutched Thoros to his chest with fierce possessiveness, he was consumed with shame and fury. If Thoros had let the bear kill Sandor at least he'd have died without the burden of Thoros's death on his shoulders. 

Sandor had failed every single person who'd ever depended on him, but his failure to Thoros stung the most of all.

“Did you think you could trust me?” Sandor hissed into Thoros's neck, his voice a low, angry growl. The idea that Thoros had sacrificed himself for Sandor- _for Sandor-_ still made him angrier than if Thoros had come up behind him and stabbed him in the back. Betrayal, he understood. 

Thoros stirred in his arms. “What?” he croaked, as though he'd already forgotten that Sandor had watched him being eaten by a dead bear and had not lifted a finger to help him. 

“Did you think I would save you? Because all I did was watch that bear. I could have saved you and I did _nothing._ You realize that, don't you?” It was the first time Sandor had addressed what had happened, but the shame had been building up inside him for days. And now, in the face of Thoros's imminent death, it overcame him.

Thoros shook his head slowly, his forehead creased with heavy, sorrowful wrinkles. “No,” he mumbled, tired but determined. Wrapped so tightly in Sandor's cloak he could barely move, but he managed to squirm a glove up so he could put it over Sandor's under the cloak. Even through the layers of fur, Sandor imagined he could feel the heat of his touch. “I thought... I would save you. I saw you standing there and I just thought... I can save him. I wanted to. I d-don't blame you.”

Sandor turned his face away angrily and Thoros's head fell back against his shoulder. The short speech had been punctuated by gasps and seemed to have drained whatever energy the priest had left.

“Why?” he asked. And, when Thoros didn't reply quickly enough, he shook him, making the priest wince and suck in a gurgling breath. “Why save me? And if you dare say anything about the Lord of Light I will break your fucking neck myself and end this.” 

“Sandor,” Thoros said wearily. “You wouldn't... believe me... if I told you.”

Sandor pulled in a painful breath and held it. He wanted to know what Thoros meant, but he was afraid of what the Lord of Light wanted of him- or perhaps just afraid of what Thoros wanted of him, and all the ways he'd failed him.

Sandor squinted through the dim light at Thoros's wan face and Thoros looked back up at him, his face twisted in an exhausted little smile.

“I'm a lot angrier that I dropped the rum... than I am that you let me get mauled by a bear.” 

“You stupid cunt,” Sandor said sadly. “Whatever you thought I was worth, I wasn't. Whatever your Lord thought I could do, I can't. Whatever we tried to accomplish here, we've failed.”

Thoros just closed his eyes and pinched his lips together, too weak to fight Sandor any longer.

** 

On the fifth day Sandor found, to his dismay, that in the night the priest had accidentally voided his bladder and his cloak had frozen beneath him. He could not rise, even with Sandor's assistance, and his breath was shallow and heavy and eased only when Sandor propped him upright against his chest. He could speak, but only in whispers, and the words he said were jumbled and disoriented. Sometimes he spoke as though he understood where he was, but sometimes he spoke as though he were drinking in a tavern or fighting in a battle. Once he told Sandor to fuck him harder.

“He's out of his head with fever,” Sandor had muttered to the others, but the excuse sounded feeble, even to his own ears. 

“A decision must be made,” Jon Snow said, after silently observing Sandor's efforts to rouse Thoros. Jon had spoken the least during their confinement on the ice, but when he spoke his voice had the authority of a leader. “He'll be dead before another day passes. Do we wait to see if he arises as a wight, or do we take preemptive measures?”

Sandor had looked up, his eyes flashing with fury. “Preemptive measures?” he growled dangerously. “Say what you mean, you cowardly cunt!”

“Dragon glass.” Jon Snow stared at him steadily, unafraid of Sandor. “If he already has dragon glass in his body, he won't be able to rise as a wight. He wouldn't want to come back as a wight, Clegane. No one would. And _you_ wouldn't want to be killed by your... friend. He could kill us all, if he dies in the night, while we're asleep and unaware.”

“You are _not_ fucking-” Sandor shouted, but was interrupted by a harsh cough from Thoros. The cough went on for too long; a hacking, wet cough that left flecks of phlegm on Thoros's beard and lips. It sounded bad- very, very bad.

Sandor closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, his own breath rattling in his too-tight throat. 

“Do it,” Thoros croaked from his arms and Sandor's eyes sprang open, unaware that Thoros had even been conscious. He looked down at the old priest and found Thoros watching him steadily.

“I don't want to be... one of _them_ , old bear,” he whispered. “Do it now... while you can.”

Sandor swallowed hard, trying to prepare himself. “Give me the blade,” he said, not taking his eyes away from Thoros's understanding face. 

“You don't have to do this,” Jorah Mormont said. Sandor saw that Jorah had a dragon glass dagger in his hand. Jorah would give him a kind, gentle death. Thoros probably wouldn't even feel it. 

“I've killed hundreds of cocksuckers just like him,” Sandor spat. “Why should he be any different? Give it to me.”

Sandor could tell Jorah didn't want to, but when Beric nodded shortly at him, as though giving his blessing, Jorah reluctantly passed the sharp little blade of glass over. 

Sandor held it in his gloved palm, feeling the weight of it. Anywhere would do, he supposed. It wouldn't take much to finish Thoros off, but stabbing him in his heart would be the quickest. Thoros closed his eyes one last time and Sandor lifted the blade, his fingers curled so tightly around the sharp edges he could feel it cutting into the fur on his glove and he- 

And he threw the blade across the little rocky island. It landed on the ice and spun away.

Sandor shoved Thoros at Beric and stood abruptly, his fists clenched at his sides. He didn't meet anyone's eyes, though he knew they all watched him, He was too ashamed. Gods damn him, but he _could not kill Thoros of Myr,_ not even if it had meant saving his own miserable soul. 

Sandor strode away from the group of men and moved to edge of the island. He sat down heavily on the rocks and glared at the wights, his eyes dry and aching. 

He wanted to kill every single one of them, until he dropped from exhaustion or drowned in their corpses, whichever came first. The wights, completely oblivious to his pain and burning hatred, watched him silently. It was maddening, their impassivity and his inability to hurt them when behind him he could already hear the crunch of ice as one of the men walked in search of the blade he'd thrown so they could finish Thoros off. 

Sandor picked up a rock and threw it, as hard as he could. He saw it hit one of the bastards, though the corpse just swayed before resuming its silent vigil. It had accomplished nothing, but the burn of his underused muscles had felt so satisfying that he picked up another rock and drew back his arm again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well did you cry? cause I'm not gonna lie, I cried harder while writing this than during the episode when Thoros died. 
> 
> poor Sandor *sob*
> 
> It's going to get a little less angsty soon, I promise!


	5. Chapter 5

It was only when Sandor was clinging to the side of the dragon, the feeling of unnatural warmth and hard scales under his gloved hands while the wight writhed on the spike he'd impaled it on, that he realized he'd left Thoros behind.

Thoros had managed to climb to his knees at the edge of the little rocky island, his sword hanging limply from his hand, but he seemed unable or unwilling to go any further. How he hadn't been trampled or killed in the fight Sandor could not imagine- in the heat of the moment even he hadn't been watching to avoid crushing Thoros and no one had been defending him from the wights. Perhaps he was too close to death to even be considered an enemy.

When Thoros saw Sandor watching him he slowly, painfully, lifted his sword up and saluted Sandor. A warrior's farewell. 

Fuck that.

Sandor was sliding off the dragon before he'd had time to consider his actions. Beric followed moments after him. Sandor and Beric exchanged a meaningful glance, for once in their entire history in complete harmony. 

“Fucker thought we'd leave him,” Sandor shouted over the angry screams of the dragons and the shrieks of the dead. Jon battled on, keeping the wights from swarming the dragon, but Sandor didn't give a fuck about Jon.

Beric smiled wryly back at him. “He should have known better than that.”

Thoros, seeing their descent, had put out his hands to stop them, swaying, distress on his haggard features. “No,” he wheezed when they reached him. He caught Sandor's arm and ineffectually tried to push the big man away. “No, go back. I won't make it. You'll need both hands to hang on-”

“Don't waste time arguing,” Sandor growled, and pulled Thoros up into his arms, holding the frail and wasted frame as though it were no heavier than a sack of grain. “Dondarrion, get on the dragon. You and Tormund pull him up.”

Beric nodded and dashed ahead. Tormund helped Beric up immediately and they turned, arms stretched out, to take Thoros. Sandor passed the withered priest up to them and then scrambled back up the beast's heaving sides.

“Fuck!” Sandor snarled as the heat of the dragon's skin seeped through his furs and crept into his skin. The thought of the fire that burned in the dragon's belly and belched out of his mouth in great, destroying streams was almost too much for Sandor's mind to comprehend. His heart beating wildly with fear and adrenaline, Sandor forced the thought from his head and concentrated on Thoros instead. Carefully, he crab walked over the dragon's back to where Thoros clung tenuously to the spikes that sprouted from the rough hide. Beric had a tight grip on one of Thoros's arms, but it was obvious Thoros did not have the strength to keep himself on a moving dragon.

Sandor moved to Thoros's other side and wrapped his arm firmly around Thoros's back, using his own chest to pin down Thoros's shoulder and arm beneath him, anchoring him firmly against the dragon. He wrapped one of his legs around Thoros's knee and locked it in place, and angled his hips so he didn't get stabbed with the swords and the battle hammer that stuck up awkwardly between them.

Distantly Sandor was aware of the sound of anguished dragons, the screams of the battling wights and the snarling of the captured wight Tormund had pinned against the dragon, but he was watching Thoros. Thoros was gray and hollow cheeked, but he looked more lively than he had in days. His eyes were bright with excitement. 

“If I die, at least I'll die warm,” he said over his shoulder, his crooked, broken teeth glittering in the weak sunlight.

Sandor squeezed his side, almost hard enough to hurt. He wanted to assure Thoros that he wouldn't die that day- but even he was not so cruel as to give Thoros false reassurances. 

**

Sandor stood by the little boat, listening the roll of the waves and the growling and rattling of the captured corpse. Beric and Tormund had given him parting words more friendly than he deserved and there was no excuse for Sandor to continue to wait. He should get in the little boat and begin to row to the ship. Immediately- _now._

Sandor looked back up at the castle, imagining which of the windows belonged to Thoros. Did they have him in a drafty, cold room with too many windows and no fire? What did wildlings know about caring for the weak and sickly, anyway? He'd heard the word Maester spoken, but if they really had a properly trained Maester, what sort of pitiful rejected Citadel cunt had been banished this far North? 

What if Thoros was already dead? He'd barely seemed alive when they'd pulled him off of the dragon and immediately sent him in to the warmth of Eastwatch. Would it be worse to know, or to lay awake at nights wondering if he'd lived? 

“If you would bid him farewell, you still have time,” Beric said beside him, and Sandor tore himself away from his troubling thoughts to look narrowly over at him, embarrassed that the man had read him so easily.

He opened his mouth to say something cutting, to leave Beric in no doubt as to Sandor's complete disregard for Thoros- then closed his mouth. What was the point? Anyone with eyes to see- even only one eye- knew there was something between them that was a lot more complex than camaraderie.

“The corpse isn't going anywhere. We'll watch him,” Tormund said, kicking the side of the boat and frowning down at the occupant. “You've time, if ye hurry.”

Sandor frowned sourly, waged a silent but brutal battle in his own mind, torn between his pessimistic instincts and his deepest desires, and then turned and stomped into the castle.

**

In the few hours they'd been at the castle Thoros had been bathed and swaddled in fresh bandages and clean furs. He looked peaceful and not as pale as he had on the lake. He stayed in a small, windowless interior room much like the one Sandor had stayed in after they'd been released from the prison cell. A small fire kept the air warm and gave just enough light to see by. 

When Sandor found him he thought the man asleep, but when he entered the room Thoros cracked open an eye to watch him. 

“Don't speak,” Sandor warned him, approaching the bed and feeling suddenly shy. He angled the scarred side of his face away from Thoros and stared at the wall behind Thoros's bed, frowning.

“You probably won't live,” he said, to himself as much as anyone. It was best to nip hope in the bud before it had a chance to grow thorns, after all. 

“At least here they'll... burn me. I didn't want... to be one of _them,_ ” Thoros whispered, making Sandor frown at him disapprovingly.

“I said don't speak!” Sandor said, but he was compelled to move closer. He sat down by Thoros's hip, and when Thoros slowly turned his head to follow Sandor with his eyes, Sandor pulled off one of his gloves and reached out his dirty, bare hand to lay it against the side of his face. It wasn't hot with fever as he'd feared it would be- in fact, though Thoros looked exhausted, he didn't look nearly as bad as probably he should have.

“Maybe you won't die- yet,” he said.

“Everyone dies of... something, but I don't think it's... my time yet,” Thoros croaked, and he slowly pulled his arm from under his furs, giving Sandor plenty of time to move away, and then laid his hand over the back of Sandor's. His palm was cool and dry, but the brush of skin warmed Sandor as much as the fire did. 

“Well you're a stubborn old fucker, I'll give you that,” Sandor said, as close to a compliment as he was likely to get. He sighed gustily, knowing he needed to leave but feeling unsettled, as though there were too much between them that was unresolved for Sandor to part from him in peace. 

“My work... isn't over yet,” Thoros said.

Fearing he'd speak again of the most obnoxious god in Westeros, Sandor rolled his eyes at him. “Fuck that. Your fighting days are over, old man. If you live over this you're going to spend the rest of your days drunk in front of a fire doing nothing more strenuous than eating, shitting and fucking lonely wildlings.” 

It was a pleasant dream: one that could keep him warm when he was far away, fighting terrors.

Thoros didn't smile at that, only stared searchingly up at Sandor. “Maybe... that is my work. Perhaps I'm meant to wait.” Sandor withdrew his hand, alarmed by the intimacy in Thoros's expression and tone, but Thoros was unrelenting. He clung to Sandor's hand, his grip weak but his intense eyes holding Sandor in place. “Won't you fight harder... if you're fighting to return to me?”

It was too much. The spell broken by his discomfort, Sandor tore his hand away from Thoros's fragile grasp and backed away from the bed, his expression as tumultuous as his thoughts. He was shaking his head in denial- denial that Thoros could ever mean more to him than a convenient hole to fuck. They were warriors- warriors didn't care about each other. Cunts did. And cunts got killed.

Sandor spun on his heel and stormed out of the room, his fists clenched at his side. He made it almost out of the castle before he turned around again. If he left Thoros like that he'd regret it for the rest of his days, no matter how short they were. And wouldn't he die with enough regrets as it was?

A slender wildling man with a long gray beard was spooning a greenish broth into Thoros's mouth when Sandor returned, but the cup fell from his fingers when he beheld Sandor in all his passionate glory: tall, wild and strong as an ox, even at his weakest.

“Get out,” Sandor snarled and the wildling did not hesitate, slithering past him without a backwards glance. Fucking coward.

Thoros struggled to his elbows, his expression caught between fear and hope, clearly not sure if Sandor had come to kill him or ravish him. “Sandor?”

Sandor fell on him, cupping his gaunt face in his hands and kissing him until Thoros was pushing weakly at Sandor's chest so he could breathe in great thunderous gasps.

“If you live, go to Winterfell, as soon as you can. They'll have food and they'll need every pair of hands they can get, no matter how useless.” And if they wall fell- _when_ the wall fell- the dead would take Eastwatch first. 

Perhaps, even then, the kindest thing Sandor could have done was wrap his hands around Thoros's neck and choke the life from him so he could make sure his body was burned, but he couldn't have done that any more than he could have forced himself to walk into a fire. 

“Will I see you there, when... you return from King's Landing?” Thoros asked, his breathless voice now nakedly hopeful, not hiding anything. 

Sandor released him and backed away to the door so he could watch Thoros for as long as possible. He thought of telling him he probably wouldn't live through the trip to King's Landing, but he'd been predicting his own death for so long now that the words felt empty. He was a hard fucker to kill.

“Go to Winterfell, as soon as you can,” Sandor said again, unable to make Thoros any promises for the future. “I'll send word of your arrival,” he said, and strode off quickly to find a raven before they left.

 

**

_Arya Stark-_

_I'm sending you Thoros of Myr. He's probably still on your little list, but you owe me, and if you let him die I will come back from the dead if need be and cut off your head. He's a worthless cunt and he'll need to be kept from the rum if you want anything out of him, but he'll build weapons or sew banners or whatever the fuck your lot is doing at Winterfell. I'm leaving him in your care- see he's fed and tended._

_I thought he'd gone mad when Jon Snow said his youngest sister had returned to Winterfell. I guess you aren't as useless as I thought you were._

_-The Hound_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the last chapter before the finale comes out. It may take me a couple of weeks to finish the story up after next Sunday because school starts Monday, which means that my free time will be limited. Plus, this story is shaping up to be 30-40,000 words long, which is much longer than I originally anticipated. I do want to take this to the ending of the war, and then beyond, to Thoros and Sandor's lives post-war. Thank you so much to everyone's who has joined me on this ride!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided that one essential thing that must be changed for this to work for me is if the attack on Eastwatch is a prophetic vision of Bran's, instead of something that's happening in present time. I'm not sure he actually sees the future (?), but in this story he does. I'm going to say that he has the vision in time for them to send word to Eastwatch to abandon ship and join them at Winterfell.... and for the sake of plot, we're going to say Tormund believes him and agrees to take his wildlings and leave, okay?
> 
> I will have a new chapter up tomorrow where Thoros and Sandor finally reunite, hooray!

“If you continue to glare at those dragons you may frighten them away,” Davos Seaworth said when he sidled up to Sandor at the deck railing he'd been leaning against. For whatever reason the old smuggler seemed determined to be friendly with Sandor and didn't seem the least bit put off by his surliness, even though Sandor had been snarling at him since the moment he'd met him.

Sandor turned to glare at him and discovered that Brienne of Tarth was with him- bloody woman. She was not afraid of his surly demeanor either. 

Since they'd left King's Landing and begun to sail back to White Harbor, Sandor had spoken little. Between his brooding over the encounter with his brother, and the uncertainty over Thoros's fate- not to mention the dim fate of all of humanity- Sandor had found he did not have a single civil thing to say to anyone and had kept apart from his companions as readily as they had distanced themselves from him. Most of the King's Landing party had been wise enough to keep their distance from him, going out of their way to walk on the other side of the ship's deck, or leaving several chairs empty on either side of him at mealtimes, but not Davos or Brienne. 

In the privacy of his own mind he could admit that he didn't dislike Brienne or Davos the way he did most people, but he'd have cut his own throat before admitting it. 

Sandor didn't even bother to reply to the friendly overture, just curled his lip and continued to watch the rise and plunge of the great beasts. Every now and then one would dive into the water and emerge with a huge sea creature. He'd watch with horror and admiration as the dragon would toss it in the air and roast it alive before downing it whole. 

“They're fascinating creatures,” Brienne said. 

“Not the word I would have used,” he grumbled. Sandor turned his glower on the two, annoyed to have his solitude intruded upon. “What do you want?”

Davos hesitated, before offering Sandor a small scroll. “Bran Stark, Jon's brother at Winterfell, is a greenseer. He says that Eastwatch will be taken by the Night King and all who reside within will be killed-”

Sandor cut him off, snatching the scroll from Davos's hand and beginning to tear through it, his heart thundering in his chest with a sudden surge of adrenaline.

“Bran sent a message to Eastwatch, and convinced Tormund Giantsbane to abandon his post and return to Winterfell. They march as we speak. No word of your companions,” Davos concluded, even as Sandor reached the end of the message and realized that for himself. 

Sandor flipped the little scrap of paper over anyway, as though it might hold a secret message on the back. Finding nothing, he shoved the scroll back at Davos. 

“There would be no reason to mention your priest, even if he lived,” Brienne said kindly as Davos rolled the message back up. How they knew that Thoros would be of particular concern to Sandor he preferred not to consider. The thought of his personal affairs being discussed as though they were gossip made his blood simmer with rage. 

“I suppose your ginger wildling is safe as well,” Sandor said meanly, just for the satisfaction of seeing the big woman's composure slip. 

“Tormund isn't _my_ wildling,” she snarled, her eyes flashing and her fair cheeks turning pink.

“And Thoros isn't _my_ priest,” he snapped back, but their hostile stand off was interrupted by Davos's poorly concealed chuckle. 

Flushing, Sandor turned back to the dragons, his mind working furiously while Davos began to run his cunt mouth beside him. 

If Thoros lived he would be at Winterfell waiting for Sandor by the time they arrived. If he was dead, well... at least his body would have been properly burned, little comfort though that gave him. Dondarrion would have seen to that. 

Sandor only began paying attention to what Davos was saying when he heard the words _purpose_ and _destiny_ mentioned.

“Don't tell me you believe all that Lord of Light horse shit,” Sandor said, even though he himself could not deny what he'd seen with his own eyes. 

“I fucking despise the Lord of Light,” Davos said with enough vehemence that Sandor looked around at him in surprise. He'd never heard such venom in the old man's voice. Seeing Sandor's shocked expression Davos grimaced apologetically. “Thoros seems a good enough fellow, though the gods know I have no love of Red Priests. At least I never heard of him ever burning anyone in sacrifice to his god.”

“No!” Sandor said, recoiling in horror. At least, he didn't _think_ Thoros had ever done such a thing. He fucking better not have.

“You must forgive me, for my experiences with those who follow the Lord of Light have not been good ones. That doesn't mean I don't believe in him, though. Aye, I've seen too much to deny it. But I don't I have to like it.”

Sandor nodded. He couldn't have expressed his own feelings about the Red God any better.

“A Red Priestess assisted in the murder of Renly Baratheon,” Brienne said, her teeth gritted, and Sandor realized that of all their party, the three of them were united in their mistrust of R'hllor.

“He's a cruel god,” Davos said musingly. “Without mercy.”

“You cannot trust a man who follows R'hllor, Clegane,” Brienne said, her steely gaze on Sandor. She did not sound threatening so much as concerned. For Sandor?

Sandor stood taller, a hand going to the hilt of his sword without thought, as though he might cut her down where she stood if she spoke one more word against Thoros. If she ever threatened Thoros she would find that Sandor was not as easily bested as he had been the first time they had battled.

Davos was looking quickly between the two, as though wondering how he would break apart two such strong warriors should a fight erupt between them.

“Thoros nearly gave his life to return the wight beyond the wall,” Davos said to Brienne. “I believe his purpose is noble, no matter which god he follows. I trust him,” he concluded, turning his last words to Sandor.

Brienne cast her eyes down after another tense moment, a small concession, and Sandor forced himself to relax, dropping his hand from his sword and leaning deliberating against the rail again. He didn't want to fight Brienne- not unless he had to. 

He nodded his head towards the scroll in Davos's hand and flicked a glance at Brienne, who had spoken to the boy most recently. “What about the Stark boy. He's a greenseer? Do you believe him?”

Brienne's pale eyes roved thoughtfully over the waves of cold ocean. “I do not know,” she admitted. “Everything he's said has been accurate, and I've seen stranger things. Haven't you?”

Sandor had, but more importantly, he'd once seen a vision himself, dancing in the flames of a fire. He didn't like to think of that, though.

“Besides, it doesn't take a prophetic vision to see that the wall will fall, does it? Especially now that the Night King has-” Davos glanced around, to make sure no one of Daenerys's party was close enough to overhear and be hurt by the remembrance. “One of the dragons,” he concluded, and they all paused to consider the horror of the thought: a dragon, one of those great, fire belching beasts, in the hands of the dead. 

Would there be anything that could possibly save them from that?


	7. Chapter 7

The changes in the Northern landscape went beyond the season. When Sandor had last been down these roads the North had been prosperous and sunny. It was now desolate and decimated by war and constantly shifting leadership. 

Winterfell itself was the most changed. Although it was covered with the activity of thousands of people, beneath the overly populated landscape the buildings were pocked with the marks of war, barely recognizable as the once great castle of the North. 

Their time in the boat put them a week ahead of the Unsullied and the Dothraki, but still people and tents spread out around Winterfell like a small village- wildlings, Northmen from many houses and soldiers of the Vale. 

Winterfell's courtyard was bursting with people, everyone doing something productive, from manning fires for the dozens of blacksmiths that worked tirelessly, or those who assembled hundreds of breast plates. Sandor saw the glittering of black weapons, the dragon glass that was whittled down into spear points and daggers by thousands of hands. 

With all of the attention of Winterfell on the return of their king and the awe inspiring sight of two fully grown dragons and their beautiful queen, Sandor was able to search the faces of the people around him without scrutiny, his own scarred face and large size made inconsequential in comparison. 

So covered in furs it was difficult to see faces clearly, and twice he began to seize a man he thought was Thoros only to discover it was a startled Northman or a wary wildling. Sandor moved away from the little group as they were welcomed home by their people, cutting his way through the crush of people and using his superior height to scan faces. He felt almost ill with dread. Hope had done this to him. He almost wished he'd seen Thoros dead at Eastwatch, so he did not have to suffer the uncertainty of not knowing.

And then, he saw a familiar eye patch fighting its way through the crowd towards him.

“Dondarrion!” he shouted, starting forward through the press of people. His heart was in his throat, for where Beric was-

“Sandor!” Thoros of Myr cried from behind Beric, a joyful grin splitting his beautiful face. He was bundled in furs so that only his features peeked out, but Sandor would know that snaggle toothed smile and those sparkling blue eyes anywhere.

Sandor ground to a halt, feeling light headed with relief. His extremities tingled and his legs felt shaky and black spots danced in front of his eyes. Suddenly too weak to even move, he just stood and let them come, first Beric and then Thoros at his heels. Whatever had taken over his body moved him, lifting his arms and pulling both men up into a tight embrace, crushing their bodies against his chest. He hadn't even realized he'd cared about Dondarrion until then, when he recognized that a portion of his concern had been allotted to the leader of the dismantled Brotherhood. 

His joy was for Thoros, however. Sandor pressed his cheek against Thoros's fur covered head and closed his eyes, his mind completely, blissfully at peace for the first time in weeks. 

His moment of sentimental insanity did not last for long. Soon enough a blush stole over his cheeks at the public showing of softness and he pushed the men away, as though he had no idea why they were pressed so near to him.

Neither Beric nor Thoros seemed offended. Even Beric was smiling and Thoros grinned so widely Sandor could see the missing molars at the back of his mouth. 

“You lived,” Sandor said, for he could think of nothing else that was worth saying.

“The Lord-” Beric began, but Thoros gave his friend a jab in the ribs with his elbow and Beric closed his mouth with a sheepish look. “My friend has a great will to live,” Beric said instead, for once sounding like the Beric of old. 

“I lived,” Thoros confirmed and he shared a look with Sandor that made Beric duck his head with a smirk and wander away to join the massive crowd around the rest of Sandor's party.

“I should...” Sandor said, trying to tear his eyes away from Thoros with limited success. Above the heads of the curious wildlings and Northmen Sandor caught a glimpse of Sansa Stark, looking regal and beautiful. He knew wherever her siblings were Arya Stark was sure to be nearby, and second only to Thoros he wished to see the Wolf Girl most of all, but his gaze kept returning to Thoros. He was eager to greet the Stark girls and see that they were alive and whole with his own eyes, but he found there was nothing he wanted more than to speak to Thoros somewhere he would not have to hide his words or actions. 

“You should come with me,” Thoros said and turned back towards the castle. He shot Sandor a mischievous look over his shoulder, and Sandor found it impossible not to follow him, just as a stallion will chase a mare in heat. In fact, it was all he could do not to reach out and grab a part of Thoros, just to feel him and reassure himself that Thoros was real. 

Thoros lead Sandor through the crush of people, winding around the courtyard and then into the almost equally busy castle. He confidently sprang up stairs and slid through hallways, as though he'd been living at Winterfell for years instead of weeks. Occasionally he looked back at Sandor, as though he too had to remind himself that Sandor really was at Winterfell. 

Finally Thoros lead Sandor down a hallway that was clean and unoccupied save a passing servant or two. The doors to the rooms were heavy, well kept wood and Sandor lifted his eyebrows, impressed that Arya had put Thoros in what was clearly the sleeping quarters meant for important visitors. 

“Here,” Thoros said, and inserted a key he pulled from his pocket into the door. He pushed the door open and held it for Sandor to enter, turning so that he could watch him greedily as they passed close to each other. 

The bedroom was small but fine. There was a fresh fire in the hearth and a tub of steaming water sat before it, not yet cooled. 

“I notified a servant as soon as we heard your party's approach,” Thoros said as he closed the door behind them and bolted it from the inside.

Sandor felt suddenly uncomfortable, now that the initial joy of Thoros's survival was mellowing and their privacy forced him to confront things he wasn't ready to, even in the privacy of his own mind. Sandor could feel the words they had spoken during their last conversation as if they were a physical thing between them. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to believe what Thoros had implied when they parted or if it was better that they had been fever induced delusions. 

Their gazes met and then skittered away. Thoros, perhaps feeling the same insecurity, gestured vaguely towards the door. “I could... leave,” he said, his voice uncertain, and Sandor grimaced.

“Don't be a cunt,” Sandor said harshly, to cover the awkward moment. “What have I got that you haven't seen before?” he asked, and began to roughly remove his clothing, his eyes on the worn but opulent rug under his feet. 

Sandor kicked away his boots and then stripped his trousers off and stood bare, looking up at Thoros defiantly, as though daring the priest to see him when he was vulnerable.

The look Thoros was giving him made Sandor breathe in sharply, his body flushing with the rush of arousal. Thoros may not have meant the words he'd said to Sandor, but he still desired him, if the hungry gleam in his eyes and his parted lips were anything to go by. Desire was a familiar emotion, and Sandor concentrated on it instead of the unspoken sentiment between them.

Still watching Thoros, Sandor stepped into the large tub and settled into the water. It was still deliciously warm. It was an extravagant waste that Sandor couldn't help but feel must somehow have been a mistake, but he didn't care. With a sigh of relief, Sandor leaned his head back against the edge of the tub and sank his long body up to his shoulders. He had to curl up his knees to fit, but outside a king's chambers, they didn't make tubs to fit his huge frame.

Sandor closed his eyes and listened to the sounds that Thoros made- his slightly heavy breathing and the rustle of his furs as, Sandor imagined, the priest began to discard his own clothing. Sandor's impulse was to open his eyes and watch, but there was something so sweet about listening to the little sounds the priest made that were somehow so unique to him: his soft breaths and the whisper of his skin as it brushed together and his bare feet striking the rug. 

He did not open his eyes until he felt Thoros sit down on the edge of the tub. Thoros had removed everything but his trousers and from his perch on the tub he looked over his shoulder at Sandor, his expression hopeful but unsure. 

“Do you want this, old bear?” he asked and Sandor sat up abruptly, suddenly angry at the insecurity in the priest's voice- angry at himself, rather, for letting Thoros believe him to be indifferent.

“Of course I do,” he said gruffly, and reached up to put a wet hand on Thoros's narrow back. He dragged his fingers up his spine, feeling the bump of each vertebrae beneath his thin skin. Without thinking, he leaned forward and replaced his hand with his mouth, letting his lips ride the wave of his spine until he encountered the soft brush of Thoros's hair. He pushed his face against Thoros's neck, the feel of his wiry ginger hair tickling his cheeks and his slightly sour, masculine odor flooding Sandor's nose. 

He brought his hands up and wrapped them around Thoros's chest, feeling the rapid expansion of Thoros's sides as the priest responded to Sandor's touch. “I want you,” he whispered against Thoros's ear, and ran his hands down the ripple of Thoros's rib cage and over the soft skin of his belly.

“Sandor,” Thoros said, arching into his touch and leaning his head back so that it rested against his shoulder. He looked at Sandor with his lovely blue eyes turned almost black by his engorged pupils, and when Sandor reached a hand past the waist band of his trousers and delved below to grope his hardening cock, his mouth parted with a moan.

“Get these off,” Sandor ordered, withdrawing his hand and making Thoros grunt in disappointment but comply, standing and shimmying out of his trousers in one movement.

Thoros's bear wounds were a healthy pink and healing nicely and he looked strong, as though his experience beyond the wall had little affected him. He was still too thin, but with rations as they were, no one would eat as much as they wished until summer came again. His color was good, though, and his eyes sparkled with life. Even the top knot that perched on the crown of his head seemed somehow a little jaunty and proud, grayed and thinning though it was. Considering how near death he had seemed to be, Sandor could only look at him with amazement. Apparently the Eastwatch Maester was more competent than he'd given him credit for. 

He didn't have long to wonder, however, for Thoros was crawling into the tub and making room for himself on Sandor's lap, sliding his thighs around his hips and settling his back against Sandor's thickly muscled thighs. The movement made the water tremble at the top of the tub, threatening to splash over the edge.

“The water will get cold if we don't bathe quickly,” Thoros said, running his hands over Sandor's chest and shoulders distractedly. 

Sandor, unable to keep his hands to himself either, gripped Thoros's hips and gently rocked their groins together, making water dribble over the edge in rhythmic waves. 

Thoros grunted and arched, kneading his fingers into Sandor's flesh. “There's a good bed over there,” he said breathlessly, and Sandor, deciding Thoros was talking too much, pressed a hand against the back of Thoros's neck to drag him down for a kiss. 

“I want to open you up and fuck you, and I can't do that in this tub,” Thoros said when he'd reluctantly pulled away, as though playing his final card. 

“Think you're man enough to take me?” Sandor challenged after a breathless, shocked moment. 

“Depends on whether you're man enough to let me,” Thoros replied and began to lather up the cloth on the side of tub with a piece of soap.

“Aye, I might be,” Sandor said and allowed Thoros to begin to run the soapy cloth over his shoulders.

When they were both scrubbed clean they climbed out of the tub, trailing soapy water without caring. They used the cloths the servant had provided to dry each other, but soon their touches became sensual, hands sliding over wet skin and grabbing handfuls of slippery flesh. Well before they were dry Sandor abandoned the cloths, just pulling Thoros's wet body up close to his and kissing him. He didn't want to hurt Thoros so he kept his mouth soft and slow instead of the harsh, punishing kisses they usually shared. 

“Sandor,” Thoros murmured when they'd pulled apart to breathe, his lips and breath brushing against Sandor's face. “I want to fuck you now.”

Sandor let out a bark of laughter, smiling reluctantly down at Thoros, pleased by the priest's brazenness.

“You are a large man, Clegane,” Thoros murmured, reaching out to touch Sandor's chest as he was wont to do. His posture was curved into Sandor's space and his gaze was hungry and unflinching, as though he didn't even notice Sandor's scars anymore.

Sandor leaned in to his touch as Thoros moved his hands to caress the muscles in his arms. “Aye, I'm a big fucker,” he said, his voice low and warm. 

Thoros squeezed his biceps appreciatively and then he pushed him. Sandor let him, making his body loose and suggestible so that Thoros could shove him back until his knees hit the edge of the bed that predominated the small room. Sandor fell back on it, the bed creaking under his weight. 

Sandor leaned back on the bed onto his elbows, giving the false illusion of vulnerability. Thoros stood between Sandor's parted knees and watched him hungrily. Thoros's cock was full and heavy with blood between his legs and Sandor ached for it suddenly, for the feel of another man finding pleasure in his body. It had been too long.

“What are you waiting for?” he asked impatiently, and Thoros smirked and crawled between his spread legs, laying his wet body against Sandor's and undulating against him while pressing scratchy kisses to rough and scarred skin on Sandor's neck and chest. The feeling of his soft kisses on skin that rarely felt any touch but his own was wonderful- almost too good to allow. 

“Don't fuck me like I'm a woman, priest,” Sandor growled, more out of pride than displeasure, as Thoros nibbled at his nipple while his scraggly beard tickled his ribs. 

Thoros quirked up an eyebrow and bit Sandor playfully, his crooked yellow teeth cradling the brown areola while his tongue flicked against the hardened nub in the center, making Sandor suck in a gasp of titillation. Thoros snaked a hand between them and grasped Sandor's hard cock, giving it a healthy squeeze, as though to prove he knew that Sandor liked what Thoros was doing to him, no matter his protests. 

“I've noticed you weren't a woman,” he said richly, his lips brushing against Sandor's sensitive nipple once more before withdrawing. Thoros crawled over Sandor and rummaged around in the little table by the bed, emerging triumphantly with a little pot of something that smelled woody and medicinal, even from several feet away.

“What's that?” Sandor asked suspiciously as he followed him up the bed so he could settle against the pillows at the head of the mattress. His frame was so long his feet hung over the edge of the bed, but the mattress was softer than any he'd slept in for a very long time.

“It's fine,” Thoros said cheerfully, opening up the little pot and scooping up a generous glob of glistening grease. “Just an ointment for irritated skin, I believe. It'll do the job.”

Sandor was apprehensive, but when Thoros reached between his legs and touched his hole he found the ointment surprisingly cool and pleasant- a little tingly, but not painful.

“Hmm,” he grunted, unwilling to admit it felt nice, and lifted a knee to give Thoros better access. It had been so long since he'd been penetrated that the first invasion of Thoros's fingers had him tensing, not in pain but at the oddness of the sensation. Like shitting in reverse. In the dim recesses of his memory he recalled liking this, though, when he'd been an adolescent and he'd let the rare squire take him into a dark corner of the stable and bend him over a bale of hay. They'd used saddle oil back then, if he recalled correctly. 

“You're smiling,” Thoros said, his voice obviously pleased. He was poking at Sandor's hole with two fingers and while it still didn't feel particularly good, it was beginning to feel as though it had the _potential_ to be good. “I must be doing something right.”

“Get on with it,” Sandor growled, the reminiscent smile he hadn't known was on his face falling away abruptly. He shifted on the pillows and brought his other knee up, spreading his legs to make room for the priest between them. “I've taken bigger shits than your cock.”

Thoros grimaced and withdrew his hands. “You old charmer,” he said sarcastically, but he grabbed one of the pillows at the headboard and stuffed it under Sandor's arse then moved to kneel between his legs anyway.

“Like this?” Sandor asked, a hint of uneasiness in his voice. The thought of his face so exposed during such an intimate act quelled his enthusiasm more than he wanted to admit. “I'll turn over.”

Thoros hesitated, his eyes scanning Sandor's face, as though trying to penetrate his thoughts. “Like this,” he finally decided. He opened his mouth to say something else, then seemed to reconsider his words. He smiled ruefully and leaned forward to give Sandor a quick kiss instead before reaching down to position his cock at Sandor's hole. 

Long forgotten instincts had Sandor pressing out, to allow the intrusion, and Thoros sank in slowly, inch by inch until he was flush against Sandor's arse.

They both released held breaths.

“Sandor,” Thoros moaned, eyes shut in ecstasy, as he pressed into Sandor, not withdrawing but rather pushing into him as deeply as he could, as though he were trying to climb inside dick first.

It felt nice, but as Sandor recalled, it could feel better. “Move, you fucker,” he growled and Thoros's firey eyes sprang open. He withdrew and pushed back in harder, and Sandor arched his back and grunted. Yes, that was it. He pulled his knees up higher and Thoros put his hands down on the back of Sandor's thighs and leaned his weight against them, spreading him wider and pushing his hips up to make a better angle for penetration. The stretch of his muscles would hurt tomorrow, but he didn't care.

“You can't hurt me, priest,” Sandor reminded him, and Thoros picked up a swift, powerful pace that had Sandor's toes curling. His cock slapped against his belly as Thoros plowed into him and Thoros's dick rubbed that spot inside him that made the little discomforts and inconveniences worth it. Their harsh gasps filled the room, like the hoarse barks of animals. 

It _was_ good- even better than he'd remembered. He liked the way Thoros's warm waist felt between his spread thighs and the way his hands pushed Sandor down and held him firmly, as though Thoros had complete mastery of him and Sandor's only responsibility was to lie back and accept him into his body. Most of all he liked the way Thoros's cock filled him up, and how close the connection made them feel, the ecstatic jolts of pleasure bursting deep inside in a direct connection to Thoros's movements. He'd forgotten how much he liked this. Maybe he hadn't wanted to remember, because for so many years the feeling had seemed beyond his reach. 

It seemed to last a long time to Sandor, the moment intense as Thoros panted and worked above him while staring down unflinchingly into his face. It wasn't easy for Sandor not to turn his face away but he forced himself to look at Thoros in return, to memorize the face of the man who had almost been lost and might yet leave him again one day soon.

The stimulation of Thoros's cock alone might have brought him off, it was so good, but Sandor got his hand between their bodies just in time to give himself a few frantic strokes before he was bursting between them, semen gushing from his cock and being slung by his pumping fist between them and onto the furs beneath.

Thoros, pushed over the edge by Sandor's orgasm, followed immediately afterwards. He curled over Sandor, his hands like claws on the backs of Sandor's knees, and he heaved into him, his last few thrusts rattling the bed frame. He was whispering some gibberish- Sandor heard his name in a worshipful moan a time or two- but the words were drowned out by the receding waves of his own pleasure. 

Thoros slowed to a lazy roll, his chest heaving but his hips continuing to circle jerkily. In the sudden quiet Sandor could hear the wet smack of Thoros's cock sliding through his own juices and his low hanging testicles brushing the sticky hair on Sandor's ass. Sandor shifted, uncomfortable, and the inattentive drag of Thoros's cock against his sensitive innards sent chills up his spine, pushing Sandor's mind set of _never enough_ almost immediately into _too much_.

“Enough,” he grunted, and used his thighs to push Thoros away until the priest slid out of him with a revolting, meaty noise, like a sword being withdrawn from a fresh corpse. Smiling in drowsy apology, Sandor rolled over onto his stomach and nestled his scarred cheek into the pillow and closed his eyes, so contented he thought he be able to die without regrets in that moment.

“Don't go to sleep, old bear,” Thoros said, following him. He crawled over Sandor's body and lay down on top of him, his deflating cock nestling against Sandor's arse and his chest flush with his back. Thoros tucked his head against his neck and bit his good ear teasingly.

Sandor bit back a smile and bunched up his shoulders, as though he meant to throw Thoros off, but couldn't quite commit. Truthfully, he didn't mind the priest's closeness. It felt nice, and he'd slept with heavier burdens. “Fuck off,” he mumbled, feeling as though he were melting into the soft bed.

“We can't sleep here,” Thoros said into his ear, his voice warm and seductive. “This is Yohn Royce's room.”

Sandor's eyes flew open. “What?”

Thoros leaned to the side so he could see Sandor's face. He was a grinning like a devil. “You think they'd give me a room like this? I sleep on a pallet in a hallway with two hundred other men. Arya gave me the key for the afternoon. She bloody hates Yohn Royce. She told me to come on his pillow.”

Sandor did roll Thoros off of him then, flipping quickly onto his back so he could look Thoros full in the face. “She knows? About...” 

He didn't know why he suddenly felt so alarmed. He didn't _really_ care about anyone else knowing. No one but the most religious really cared who fucked who, especially inconsequential people like Sandor and Thoros, who needed no heirs. But no one else's opinion mattered to him like the Wolf Girl's did. 

Thoros shrugged, unconcerned. “She wanted to know why you cared enough about me to send her a message.”

Scowling, Sandor stood up from the bed to go in search of his scattered clothing. “I don't care about you,” he mumbled, his words so obviously a lie that Thoros didn't bother to contradict them. 

Thoros came up behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist, clearly unwilling to let the intimacy between them slip away. Sandor could feel his beard tickle his bare back and again felt the urge to curl up with his lover and close the door against the rest of the world. He briefly lifted a hand and caressed Thoros's wrist where it lay against his abdomen. 

“Arya doesn't care about that, old bear,” Thoros said. “And... she wanted to know about you. She thought you were dead.”

Sandor reluctantly walked out of Thoros's arms and began to pull on his clothing again over his damp, sticky body. “Aye, I figured she'd be dead too.” He wanted to know about Arya as well, and what had happened to her after she had left him and his curiosity overcame his embarrassment. “So she took you in, did she? Didn't throw you to the wolves?”

“She won't let me touch anything stronger than the watered down swill they serve at mealtimes,” Thoros said mournfully as he began to put on his discarded clothing as well. 

Sandor smiled briefly. “Good girl,” he said with satisfaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might be wrong, (book readers feel free to correct me) but my understanding of Westeros is that homosexuality is tolerated so long as it is kept behind closed doors and not spoken of and it doesn't prevent the production of heirs in those who need them. I doubt that my side characters will ever directly speak of Thoros and Sandor's relationship, but it's sort of an open secret at this point. And besides, with the current upheaval, even those who might disapprove aren't likely to bother, considering their other concerns. 
> 
> Plus, who's going to tell Sandor Clegane who he can or can't fuck? A man who wants to be separated from his head, that's who.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Queensusan's project 'Get Sandor More Friends' continues. Not much Thoros/Sandor, but the friendships and allies that Sandor gains were as important to me when I began planning this story as the romantic aspect, so I hope you enjoy that as well!

“Oh look, you've made another one cry,” Thoros said, his dry voice a little tinged with impatience. While Thoros seemed to excel at that task he'd been assigned of teaching the children at Winterfell how to defend themselves, his playful spirit putting the children at ease and boosting their confidence, Sandor was an abysmal failure.

“They're the most pathetic cunts I've ever seen,” Sandor said as the thirteen year old boy he'd been attempting to teach how to block stumbled away, cradling his wrist and crying. Two more of the children, overhearing Sandor's words, bit their lips and ducked their heads, as though they too were fighting back their emotions. 

Sandor huffed, but privately he knew he wasn't really irritated but rather _afraid._ It filled him with horror that the North expected their children, both girls and boys, to fight in their war, even though logically he knew every pair of hands was needed. It didn't make it easier, knowing the untrained fools would march to their almost certain deaths. 

Thoros sighed and pulled Sandor away from the groups of children. He'd clearly wanted to keep Sandor with him and include him in his work at Winterfell, but fifteen minutes and three crying children later, it was obvious that it wasn't working.

“I know they're pathetic,” Thoros said in an undertone, his own eyes flicking sadly over the boys and girls who held little wood practice swords and daggers. “They aren't fighters. They're peasants and servants and field worker's children. But they'll die just the same as warriors, if they can't defend themselves.”

“Then they'll die,” Sandor snapped, pulling his arm roughly out of Thoros's grasp. His anxiety over the children's fate was making him short tempered and snappish and the lingering warmth of their interlude in Yohn Royce's room was diminishing quickly. “You're only giving them hope where there is none.”

Thoros gave him a hard look. “Well that's more than they had before, and if that's all we can give them, then that's enough. If you have contempt for children, you should train with the adults,” he said, his voice a clear dismissal. 

Thoros's words shouldn't have stung Sandor, but it did. He realized he'd been misjudged by Thoros, but his pride wouldn't allow him to contradict the priest's opinion. 

Sandor wanted to tell Thoros he didn't hate children- in fact, for most of his life he'd hated children least of all. There was something about youth and fragility that appealed strongly to Sandor's deep, unsatisfied need to shield and protect. Even Joffrey hadn't been so bad, when he'd been very young and he'd looked up at Sandor with bright, trusting green eyes.

He couldn't say any of this, for he'd rarely been able to express what he really meant when all he'd ever been able to find were harsh words. Knowing if he spoke he would only say something horrible, he stiffly turned away, striding away from Thoros and to the other side of the training yard, where wildlings sparred. 

Sandor was welcomed enthusiastically by the wildlings, who prized his large size and proficiency in battle. He fought for what felt like hours, feeling the ache of muscles that had not trained for too long, and beneath that the more bittersweet ache Thoros had left behind. 

Sandor ended his training as the sun began to dim by facing off with Tormund, who'd arrived in time to watch Sandor force one of his best fighters to the ground. Tormund and Sandor were well matched- where Sandor was stronger and traditionally trained, Tormund was wild and fierce, employing tactics not taught by arms masters. They ended their sparring in a truce, Sandor's big arm around Tormund's neck and the wildling's wooden practice dagger shoved up into his armpit.

They broke apart, Tormund grinning, both briefly high with the joy of battle.

“Well fought, my friend,” Tormund said, clapping Sandor on the shoulder and then withdrawing it quickly at his dark look. 

A wildling woman was making the rounds, bringing mugs of ale to the fighters, and Tormund gestured for her to bring the refreshments to them. Tormund handed one to Sandor and drank deeply from his own mug. 

“It is the weak ale these Southerners drink,” Tormund said ungratefully, even with the foam clinging to the tips of his whiskers. “I would offer you the sour goat's milk of my people- and then you would see what real men drink, but we could not bring it from Eastwatch.”

Sandor contented himself with the ale, glad to be spared the wildling delicacy, but Thoros had been right: it _was_ watered down swill. Thinking of his lover, his eyes strayed over to the opposite end of the training yard, where Thoros was working with his little band of child warriors. Thoros's group was taking a break as well. Sandor could see a wildling woman with very long black hair passing out some sort of bread that the children were scarfing down hungrily. Lastly the woman brought the basket to Thoros, pulling out the largest of the loaves and giving it to him with a smile Sandor could see even across the span of the yard.

“Velsina,” Tormund said and Sandor blinked, realizing he'd practically forgotten the other man's presence. He turned a scowl on Tormund, but as usual the ginger wildling seemed immune to Sandor's foul temper. “Her man was our companion beyond the wall. He was the first killed by the bear. Velsina nursed Thoros while he recovered and he told her tales of her husband's bravery,” Tormund said with approval. “They were a great comfort to each other.” 

That got Sandor's attention. 

“Perhaps Velsina will take the priest as her man, when this is over,” Tormund said speculatively, rather like a matchmaking old woman. 

Sandor coughed harshly, choking on his ale. “ _What?_ ” 

“Velsina needs a mate,” Tormund said, completely oblivious to Sandor's shock. 

Sandor had thought Tormund understood that Thoros was his lover. Then he realized that to a man like Tormund, you might take a male lover but only when there were no women available. Likely it would never occur to Tormund that Sandor might still care for Thoros now that they were back at Winterfell.

Not that he did.

"There are not enough Free men left," Tormund continued, as though they were discussing the weather. "The priest is not large but he is tough and difficult to kill. He would give her fine children.”

Sandor's mouth hung open, stunned, and he watched Thoros and the wildling woman with new eyes. Were they standing more closely to each other than was usual? Was Velsina's smile flirtatious? Was it possible that Thoros and Velsina could have already-

His mind shied away from the thought, even though he tried to reject his revulsion. He had no claim on Thoros, just as the priest had no claim on him. What was it to him if the man fucked someone else? And, what was more, Sandor bitterly remembered that once the priest had had something of a reputation with the ladies of King's Landing, especially when he'd been part of Robert Baratheon's circle of drinking and whoring companions. Strange how he hadn't thought of that until now.

“You're a large man,” Tormund said musingly, looking Sandor up and down as though evaluating horse flesh. “Your ancestors weren't Free Folk, were they?”

Sandor, still befuddled, tore his gaze away from Velsina, who was laughing at something Thoros had said.

“You're one the best fighters I've ever seen and you bear many scars won in battle. The Free Folk like that. Join us when we've defeated our enemies and you'll take your pick of spearwives. I have two daughters of my own. Strong girls. Fierce fighters.”

“You'd want _me_ to have one of your daughters?” Sandor asked, feeling a little as though he'd stepped into another person's life. Not once had any man considered him a good match for their daughters. Most men had shielded their daughters from him, as though he were like his brother and would defile them as soon as look at them. 

Tormund lifted his bushy, gingery eyebrows and shrugged, unconcerned. “They make their own decisions. Headstrong girls. But you would give me grandchildren that would bring me pride.”

Sandor stared at him. “You're a mad fucker.” 

“Aye,” Tormund said cheerfully, lifting a mug of ale in a toast, but looking beyond Sandor's shoulder. “Priest,” he greeted, and Sandor turned his head sharply to watch Thoros pick his way across the practice yard towards them. “Clegane,” Tormund said, and Sandor heard the wildling depart, clearly to give the two privacy.

“Sandor,” Thoros said when he'd reached him, his voice a little unsure. The animosity of earlier still seemed to linger between them, but Thoros was holding the loaf of bread Velsina had given him between them like a peace offering. “Would you like to share my raisin bread?”

Sandor flicked his eyes up, looking back across the training yard and saw Velsina with her head turned in their direction, watching Thoros. She was an attractive woman; he could tell even across the yard. Thoros was no beauty, but he was a kind man with an amiable personality. Was it any wonder a bereaved widow might develop feelings for him? 

Sandor curled his lip angrily, imagining the conversations the two had had by warm fires as the priest had recovered. 

“I don't like sweets,” he said with completely unwarranted venom, making Thoros's eyes widen in surprise. 

“Oh,” Thoros said, obviously confused. “I could ask Velsina if she has brown bread.”

The casual mention of the woman only added to Sandor's bewildering jealousy. No matter how much he tried to tell himself it didn't matter if Thoros was involved with Velsina, he could not convince himself. He wanted to ask, to know for certain, but found he could not force the words past his tight lips. Admitting he was possessive of Thoros was too much like admitting he cared. 

“I don't want her fucking bread,” Sandor snarled, his raised voice attracting the attention of several men around them. Embarrassed now as well as hurt, Sandor thrust his wooden practice sword on a passing wildling and turned his back on Thoros, storming out of the practice yard and out into Winterfell's courtyard. 

He looked around him, realizing that now he'd left the training yard he didn't know what to do with himself. All around him hundreds of men and women worked, all with a clear purpose, but no one save Thoros had dared to tell him what to do. He could go back and continue to spar, but if he did that he would have to see Thoros again, and shame was even now beginning to nip at the edges of his anger, fully aware he had behaved poorly and completely helpless as how to fix the damage he may have caused.

Perhaps he could chop wood, as he'd done for Brother Ray. He'd been good at that, and his axe had never demanded anything of him he could not give.

A scrawny old man trundled past him, pushing a wooden cart covered with a heavy, rough woven cloth. The cart hit a hole in the ground, splattering mud and shit, and stuck, causing the old man to curse and struggle to right it. His thin arms strained and his deeply wrinkled face contorted with effort. 

“Move aside,” Sandor said gruffly, and the old man warily relinquished his hold on the cart handles. 

With a great heave Sandor lifted the cart, pulling it out of the hole and setting it right. Instead of giving it back to the old man, he lifted his chin in the direction the man had been walking. The cart was too large and heavy for so feeble a man and he relished the thought of some physical labor. “Lead the way,” he said, and the old man, too relieved to argue, scampered ahead, finding a way through the thickly crowded courtyard.

Sandor guided the heavy cart easily, even when they left the courtyard and moved out to the grounds around Winterfell, where the wildlings' tent camp spread in all directions. To his confusion, however, the old man continued to lead the way through the tents, and into the woods. 

“Where are we going, old man?” Sandor asked, glancing suspiciously around the dark Northern woods around them. He'd never trusted the woods, where the great heart trees with their sorrowful faces haunted his thoughts, as though they wished to speak to him as the flames did. And, with the sun sinking swiftly behind the horizon, the trees' long shadows and sinister rustling made him even more uneasy.

“Feeding the dragons, ser,” the old man said nervously, and Sandor bit back his retort that he wasn't a knight. The old peasant wouldn't have understood the difference and Sandor didn't care enough to explain.

“Bloody dragons,” he muttered with a sigh. He didn't seem able to escape the beasts.

The dragons were kept a mile outside of Winterfell so as not to cause destruction to the castle or their residents. He wasn't sure how exactly they were confined, for there was nothing to keep them from wandering, but a handful of the men Sandor recognized from the ship as Daenerys's Dothraki guarded over them and the two dragons waited in a little clearing with the appearance of docility. Somehow the dragons seemed even larger in the woods as they stood abreast even the tallest of the trees than they had on the sea or on the journey to Winterfell. Perhaps it was simply because he hadn't been so close to them since Daenerys had rescued them beyond the wall.

The dead grass under them was wet from the heat of their bodies melting the snow and the bark of the trees around them were scorched from their fire, as though they'd marked their territory. Branches were snapped and littered the ground at their feet and the bones of dead things lay like piles of twigs ground into the dirt. 

“You've brought the meat?” one of the Dothraki asked in a heavily accented voice, looking at Sandor in puzzlement, clearly recognizing him from the ship and surprised that he'd been conscripted to a lowly task.

“Aye,” Sandor said gruffly, not wishing to explain, and moved to yank the heavy cloth off of the cart's contents. A dead horse, roughly chopped in two, and pieces of a steer were wedged inside, along with a skinny dog, probably the victim of old age. It seemed a poor meal for something as majestic as a dragon, but Sandor knew that the bulk of the herd of cattle that Daenerys had brought to feed the dragons traveled with the Dothraki and Unsullied and would not arrive for several days yet. 

Sandor wondered if the cattle would be enough to feed the dragons through a long winter, and what they would eat if it wasn't. On the sea they'd hunted for themselves, but in the North any beasts that roamed the lands would be needed to feed the hungry people through what promised to be a long, hard winter.

The Dothraki began to haul out the meat, carrying it to the edge of the dragon's clearing and leaving it with somewhat more haste than they'd probably acknowledge. Sandor had no room to judge, at any rate. He stayed by the cart, keeping a vigilant eye on them from a distance. 

The two great dragons uncurled from each other, their limbs moving fluidly and gracefully, like a woman's body under a silk sheet. Sandor couldn't help but watch, enthralled by terror and awe. 

The smallest, Rhaegal, dove for a piece of the horse, clearly a prize morsel, but at Drogon's menacing snarl he dropped it and took a leg of the steer instead.

Sandor found, with a flush, that he had fallen back a dozen paces at the sound of the dragon's roar, but as everyone else had as well, no one said anything.

Drogon tore into his meal, tossing the corpse of the horse into the air and roasting it with a great spout of fire before opening his jaws and crushing the flesh and bones between his massive teeth. Blood and bits of gore rained down below, onto the ground at their feet. A limb of the tree above the dragon smoldered and cracked, breaking off and falling into the snow where it melted straight through the snow and onto the ground. Now Sandor saw why the trees were blackened and burnt.

“Ser, I stay here tonight and return in the morning for another load,” the Northman said, gesturing to the little encampment near the dragons' clearing, and Sandor reluctantly tore his eyes away from the dragons. 

“It is dark. Stay,” the Dothraki warrior who spoke the Common Tongue said to Sandor. “You will share our fire and our meal and you will tell us of your victories in battle.” 

Sandor hesitated, thinking of Thoros and the hallway he slept in. He'd assumed he'd sleep with Thoros, even if they hadn't the privacy to be intimate, but now he wasn't so sure he'd be welcome.

“Those fuckers will set fire to your tents in the night,” Sandor said, but even as he spoke the words he did not believe the dragons would, though he wouldn't have been able to explain why.

Drogon, as though hearing him and recognizing his voice, turned his head and looked at Sandor. Up close he could see the spokes of brilliant colors radiating around their pupils and the individual scales that made up the tough hide. Drogon's snout was bloody and his lip was curled over deadly teeth. 

Sandor thought Drogon was looking at him as though he knew him and was unimpressed with him.

“Alright,” Sandor said ungraciously, feeling, oddly, as though he had to prove his bravery to the dragon. And anyway, if he burned alive in the night at least he wouldn't come back as a wight. “I'll stay.”

**

Sandor did not know what awoke him, for all around him Dothraki slept, the snoring, farting lumps of their bodies indistinguishable in the dark. Perhaps it was simply his bladder, for it throbbed urgently, full of ale and melted snow. With a groan he rolled away from the peasant man who had curled close to him for warmth and he crawled out of the furs into the bitterly cold night.

There was a latrine the Dothraki had dug away from their camp, but Sandor was too cold and drowsy to bother. He stumbled to the nearest tree and fumbled at the fastenings of his trousers, pulling out his cock and pissing into the snow as quickly as he could to avoid getting frostbite on his dick. He shook off, tucked himself back in and began to head back into the tent when his eye was caught by a flash of white.

Squinting, Sandor peered across the woods to where the dragons slept. Again he saw it, a movement and a glimpse of something that caught the moon's brilliant glow and reflected it back.

Not thinking, Sandor walked nearer, through the woods towards the dragons. Had he been more awake he might have berated himself for his idiocy. He didn't even have his sword; he'd left it in the tent by his bedroll. And regardless, what was there that could hurt a dragon? And even if there was, what could Sandor do to help them? 

He walked onwards, not trying to soften his steps. He was a big, unsubtle man, and he did not know how to walk over snow quietly. By the time he recognized that the flash of white had been Daenerys Targaryeon's flowing silver hair, she had seen him as well.

Sandor froze, unwilling to go nearer the dragons, who watched his approach as well. It was difficult to interpret moods or expressions in dragons since they always seemed malevolent to Sandor, but their posture was not aggressive and their ruffs were high around their heads, making them look almost curious, as though interested to see Sandor and their mistress meet. 

Sandor had never spoken to Daenerys directly. She'd always had a crowd of people that Sandor didn't like around her, and he'd never had anything to say to her. He didn't know her, didn't trust her, and didn't want to speak to her. He took a step back, intending to retreat.

“Sandor Clegane,” she called from where she perched on the leg of one of the dragons. She climbed down gracefully, and beckoned him closer with an imperious hand. “Come nearer.”

He hesitated, looking from the woman to her dragons, somehow not sure which was more impressive.

“My children will not harm you,” she reassured him, her voice still cool but somehow not unfriendly. 

Sandor clenched his teeth and stepped nearer. The dragons watched him approach, their reptilian eyes wide. Drogon's lips were curled over his teeth again, as though sneering at Sandor. 

“Nearer,” Daenerys said when he hesitated on the edge of the clearing. “Come to me. Do not be afraid.”

His heart beating madly, and completely unsure why he was obeying, Sandor stepped cautiously forward, his gaze trained on the dragon's faces as they grew nearer. When he was near enough that he count the flecks of amber gold in Drogon's eyes and see the web of mucus in Rhaegal's nostrils, he froze, unable to go further. He could hear their breaths; he could _feel_ it as it brushed warmly against his face.

Daenerys came to him, her own steps soft and graceful, meeting him only a few feet away. She was tiny compared to his own huge size, but she had as much presence as any person he'd ever met. 

“They know you,” Daenerys said, her voice low and sweet, making him lean forward a little to hear her over the whisper of cold wind. Her silver hair blew around her face, shining in the bright moonlight. She was beautiful. 

“They can remember me?” he asked, fear squirming in his belly but also something else. Elation? 

“Of course they can,” she said, and when she glanced back at them fondly Rhaegal dipped his head in her direction, as though acknowledging her words. “They trust you.”

Sandor shook his head in bafflement. “Trust me?” he barked, his voice too loud in the stillness of the night. A part of him still felt asleep, as though he were living a dream. “Why would they trust me?”

“I don't know,” she replied, with equal candor. “Jon Snow doesn't like you. Jorah Mormont doesn't trust you. Your brother killed my brother's children.”

“I'm not my brother,” he growled, something he'd defended himself against for years. 

“I know what it's like to judged for the misdeeds of one's family,” she said sharply, and Sandor's defensive anger cooled. 

“Aye, you would,” he allowed. 

“I was advised to leave you with my armies, to travel North behind us, but I spoke in your favor.”

“Why?” He'd never even spoken to the woman. Why would she speak for him?

“Because my dragons trust you,” she repeated, smiling slightly. “And we are united by a shared enemy. No one wishes Gregor Clegane dead more than you and I. When I take King's Landing you will fight by my side and bring justice to my brother's children.”

Sandor opened his mouth, feeling a rush of some strong emotion. He'd never really understood how Daenerys had managed to unite so many people in a common cause, but he thought he was coming to see it. She was charismatic and passionate. Never before had the possibility of defeating his brother seemed so achievable, even with the thousands of obstacles in their way. He found he wanted to believe in her. 

“Why are you here?” he asked, because speaking of his brother any longer with this woman and her dragons seemed a waste of time, somehow. What more was there to say? Daenerys wished Sandor to bring her brother's children justice, and so it would be. “Where are your guards?”

“These are my guards,” she said, gesturing to the dragons. “Who will harm the mother of two dragons a mile outside Winterfell?”

That was true enough, Sandor supposed. Just the thought of the dragons, even if they weren't practically slavering down his neck, would have been enough to quell any ill feeling he'd ever had about the queen.

“The dead have taken Eastwatch,” she said calmly, not reacting when Sandor gasped and put his hand reflexively to the hilt of his sword. “Jon's brother, the greenseer, told us tonight. We'll march to meet them as soon as my armies arrive. I've come to spend as much time with my remaining children as I can.”

She didn't have to remind him that one of her dragons was dead, in the hands of the Night King. He dipped his head, acknowledging her loss and she went back to Drogon, putting a hand to his great chest, as if to draw comfort. 

“It would be wise to spend the time you have left with those who are important to you, Clegane,” she advised, climbing back onto Drogon's leg and peering out at him through the dim light. “Pride will bring you little comfort.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so I promised to update every Sunday and then promptly didn't post last Sunday. Ah, writer's block... (I had a break through, no worries)

The Unsullied and the Dothraki arrived two days later and the activity around Winterfell reached new heights of chaos. Daenerys's army set up tent camps so far and wide they almost met the clearing where the dragons were kept, making Sandor restless. He'd grown almost comfortable with the seclusion in the woods and the company of the dragons, their Dothraki guardians and occasionally Daenerys, and didn't welcome the intrusion. 

On the night before they were to march to the North, Sandor sat around their fire and listened to the Dothraki speak, their strange, harsh tongue somehow soothing, given he was not expected to participate in the conversation. He could tell, though, when their talk began to turn to women. He watched their gestures and noticed the change in the tones of their voices and thought, with bemusement, that he'd probably have been able to tell when men spoke of women, no matter what language they spoke. It was a skill picked up living around soldiers all of his life. An utterly useless skill of course, particularly since he was fairly indifferent to women himself, but a skill nonetheless. 

He let the ribald talk soothe him into a dull sense of complacency until Anno, the Dothraki who spoke the best Common Tongue, turned to Sandor with an open leer. 

“We fuck before battles,” he told Sandor, and Sandor wasn't sure if he meant the group or the Dothraki as a whole- or perhaps just soldiers in general. Most of the soldiers he knew would happily fuck before battles, given the opportunity. Some of them were happy to fuck _during_ the battle, but he preferred not to think about that since that usually meant whichever poor woman or child was unfortunate enough to be caught unprotected.

“Women will come tonight. They like big men,” he said with a wicked grin that befuddled Sandor for a moment, regardless of his lack of interest in the man. Handsome men rarely smiled at him. It took Sandor a moment to comprehend the meaning of the warrior's words. He meant that the Dothraki fighters would be happy to share their women with him in what would probably amount to some sort of orgy. 

Sandor had fucked women before, of course, but he'd done it mostly because it had been expected of him and to not do so would have been to invite speculation about himself he'd preferred to avoid. The only twisted sort of pleasure he'd derived from the act had been the self hatred he'd felt to see the fear in the eyes of the whores. Often he'd been unable to perform for them and he had slunk off with parting threats so vile that no whore who hoped to live would have revealed his impotence.

“I have a woman,” Sandor said quickly, and fought down a laugh when Anno's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“You do?” he asked. “Why do you not go to her at night?”

Sandor scowled, but the Dothraki were not men easily intimidated by anything short of a drawn blade at their throat. “She's married,” he lied, his tone and expression hinting strongly at his distaste for the conversation.

Anno, clearly immune to subtleties, pressed on. “A married woman!” he exclaimed, delighted. “Who is the husband?”

“Your father.”

Anno's brows creased in confusion and for a moment Sandor feared that he would have to kill this poor cunt who'd never been anything but welcoming to him, all because he was a fucker who'd never been able to keep his fucking mouth shut. And then Anno's expression cleared and understanding took its place.

“My father!” he cackled, delighted. He turned to his companions and relayed the joke to his friends in the guttural Dothraki tongue, and soon they were all laughing.

Muttering, Sandor got to his feet and headed away from the camp, not wanting to watch an orgy much less participate in it. The journey back to Winterfell was bitterly cold with the sun setting and the winter winds blowing, but he walked quickly and huddled under his cloak.

He didn't know what his intentions were, for when he arrived at Winterfell he found it much as it had always been- a crush of people, all busy and productive, and he with nothing to do. He might have just gone back out into the tent camps and found a fire to share, if he hadn't seen a familiar face.

“You!” he shouted. “Boy!” A couple of youths turned, but it wasn't until he'd summoned the boy's name to mind that Gendry turned.

“Clegane,” he said cautiously as Sandor fought his way over to the boy. He was a man, really, but the older Sandor got the younger everyone else seemed to be. And the boy was green and inexperienced, even if he had a strong man's body. 

“Gendry,” he said, equally terse. There was a moment of silence, then Sandor nodded at the hammer the boy wore at his belt the way another man wore a sword. “Your hammer. It's a fine weapon. Served me well beyond the wall.” He hadn't seen the boy when they'd returned to Eastwatch, but he'd been reluctant to part with the weapon. When he'd been the Lannister's dog he'd spent much of his coin on masterfully made weapons like that, and he knew fine work when he saw it.

Gendry put a hand protectively to the head of the hammer, and Sandor let out a snort of derision.

“I'm not going to steal it, you cunt,” he sneered and Gendry dropped his hand with a sheepish look. “I was admiring the work.”

“Oh,” Gendry said, sounding surprised. Which, fair enough. It wasn't as though Sandor handed out compliments willingly. “Well. You honor me.”

Sandor rolled his eyes, looking around. He was beginning to wonder why he'd bothered to stop the boy, and realized it was simply because his had been a familiar face in a sea of strangers. “Have you seen the men we were with beyond the wall? Tormund, or Dondarrion or- the priest.” 

“Tormund? He'll be with the wil-” Gendry began, then caught the slur that most Southerners said without prejudice. “T-the Free Folk camp, I imagine. Beric and Thoros have been staying in the second hallway to the left when you enter through the courtyard.”

Sandor hesitated. The Free Folk would welcome him, he knew, but he was pulled in another direction. He wished, suddenly, that he'd taken Daenerys's advice to spend time with those important to him and had sought Thoros out earlier, before time had made their meeting so awkward. He realized, in a moment of clarity, that Thoros would have welcomed him back- probably wouldn't have even expected an apology, if he'd only gone to him that first night. He'd wasted what little time they had left, and he had no one to blame but himself.

Sandor grunted out what might have passed for a thanks and turned away, heading towards Winterfell, when Gendry called him back.

“Clegane!” he said, and when Sandor turned back the boy looked hesitant. “Arya-” he began, and then stopped.

Cold dread seized Sandor's stomach. “What?” he snapped, imagining the worst. He hadn't seen the girl or her sister, though he had kept an eye out for her whenever he'd returned to Winterfell to retrieve meat for the dragons. 

“She does want to speak to you, but...” Gendry said at last, chewing on his lip, and for the first time Sandor wondered if perhaps the girl had been avoiding him. His whereabouts were surely no mystery, if one wanted to find him. “She thinks you believe she betrayed you.”

Sandor didn't know what to say either. He watched Gendry, speechless, until something occurred to him. “She told you that?” he asked suspiciously, looking the boy up and down with new eyes. He was a good looking boy, and Arya was probably old enough to care about things like that by now.

Gendry blushed and looked down, a guilty little smile tugging up the corner of his lips, confirming Sandor's theory.

“She didn't betray me. You can tell her that,” Sandor said, pushing down the possessive instincts that rose up in him. In his memory Arya was a child- someone who had depended on him for protection from boys like Gendry who had looked on her with bad intentions. But he knew she had grown, and if she was anything like as ferocious as she'd been when she was a child, she could probably take care of herself. 

He pointed a finger at Gendry, smiling grimly. “But know this, boy: that girl will cut the throat of any man who hurts her. And if she doesn't, _I_ will."

**

Sandor found Thoros and Beric huddled against a wall in a hallway as packed as Thoros had said it would be. Though the scent of so many unwashed bodies was strong, the air was warm from the concentration of two hundred men. They sat in small groupings, sharing food and ale and dirty jokes, much as the Dothraki had.

Thoros had a wine skin in his hands when Sandor spotted him, tipping its contents down his throat in a long swallow, so it was Beric who saw Sandor first. His good eye widened in surprise and he shoved his elbow into Thoros's side, making the priest swallow the drink painfully and blink in confusion- until he saw Sandor, anyway. Then his eyes narrowed slightly as his face took on a forced, stiff sort of joviality, as though it were an expression he fell back on to conceal his true emotions.

“Clegane,” Thoros said brightly, his tone sounding false to Sandor, who knew what he really sounded like when he was pleased to see him. “Join us.” He offered the wineskin. “It isn't rum, but it's better than the ale they serve at meals.

Sandor, his awkwardness morphing into anger, as it often did, glared down at him. “I thought ale was all you could get around here,” he growled, feeling somehow betrayed. He didn't like Thoros when he drank, he realized. He was loud and obnoxious and thoughtless, so different from the kind, amiable man he'd grown to know.

Thoros grinned, the twist of his lips just a little too sharp and brittle. It made Sandor angrier to receive such a smile when he was used to warmth and secret glances. “Depends on who your friends are,” Thoros said breezily.

 _Friends?_ Oh, but of course. Velsina. The Wildling woman who worked in the kitchens. She probably had access to harder liquor than was commonly supplied.

A wave of fury and unacknowledged hurt washed over Sandor. His hand clenched and for the first time in a very long time he imagined hurting Thoros. He could see it in his mind so clearly: his fist splitting Thoros's hard smile in two and crushing his glittering teeth. It would feel good- at first, until the reality of hurting the person most precious to him came crashing down on him.

Sandor didn't want to hurt him. He never wanted to hurt Thoros, so he just gave them a malevolent look and turned, roughly pushing his way through the crowded hallway, away from him.

Behind him he heard Thoros call his name.

Sandor groaned silently, and slowed his steps, though he didn't stop.

“Clegane, wait!” Thoros hissed, breathing heavily when he managed to pull up next to Sandor. Some of the people they passed were looking at them with curiosity so Sandor continued to walk, not wanting to put on a show for anyone's entertainment. 

“Go back, priest,” Sandor snarled bitterly. “It's too fucking cold to be out here.” He'd privately hoped that he'd have Thoros to warm his bed that night, but that seemed laughably optimistic now.

“Sandor!” Thoros said, and grabbed Sandor's arm.

Only his instinct to protect Thoros kept him from lashing out and pushing the priest away from him. He let Thoros pull him to a stop.

“Arya gave me another key,” Thoros said under his breath. “Come with me. We can talk.”

Sandor didn't really know that he wanted to talk to Thoros... but the compulsion, always there, to be near Thoros guided him. He let Thoros turn him back into Winterfell, and followed him through crowded corridors. Thoros took them down stairs, below the most populated areas to narrower, shabbier hallways with many doors.

“Here,” Thoros said, and inserted his key into a narrow little door that opened to reveal a deep linen closet. 

“What-” Sandor began, unsure they'd both even fit, and cautiously followed Thoros into the closet, stooping to avoid hitting the top of the doorway. They had to stand close, and the top of his head brushed the ceiling, but they fit. When they closed and locked the door and jammed the key in the lock to prevent anyone from entering, only a hint of light seeped under the door.

What the fuck had Arya been thinking? This might have been adequate for her and her boy but two grown men-

Sandor heard a rustle and the striking of flint and squinted his eyes at the unexpected light of the candle Thoros had clutched in his hand. He looked over at the priest, feeling incredibly uncomfortable to be so close to Thoros when things were so unsettled between them. He looked around the linen closet instead, and realized it was more spacious than he'd originally realized. It was really a small room divided into narrow rows with shelves of linens, now almost bare due to the demands of the packed castle. The most spacious area was on the far side against the wall, where tables for ironing had been pushed aside. They made their way to the back and Thoros sat down on a pile of dirty laundry. He peered up at Sandor, his eyes glowing in the reflected light of the candle.

Sandor sighed and leaned against the opposite shelf, looking at anything but Thoros.

“If you're looking for an apology you won't get one,” he muttered.

“I haven't been looking for anything,” Thoros said with a chilly tone of voice. “And if I had, I wouldn't have found it. You disappeared.”

Oh, and there it was. Thoros was angry. Of course Thoros was angry. But even knowing he had every right to be didn't make it easier for Sandor to express the regret he felt. 

Thoros lips were pinched and he was examining the handle of the candle he must have had stowed away in his cloak. “I don't even know what you want, Clegane,” he finally said. “Or what went wrong, or if it even matters... now.”

“Are you fucking that woman? The wildling?” Sandor asked harshly, the words out before he could hold them back. He could feel himself blushing, his face burning with shame. “I know I have no claim on you,” he admitted bitterly while Thoros's mouth was still parted with shock. “I can't fault you. I don't even blame you. You can fuck every cunt in this castle, if you want.”

“No!” Thoros exclaimed, surging to his feet. He stepped nearer to Sandor, drawing close enough Sandor could feel his warmth but not close enough they touched. The candle flickered between them. “No, I'm not. Velsina, you mean? No! Why would you think that?”

Sandor scowled. “Do you want to be?” he persisted. “Tormund said-”

“Tormund!” Thoros spat. “That interfering fucker! _No_ I don't want to fuck Velsina. I want _you,_ ” he said, his annoyance beginning to fade and his mouth softening with a rueful smile. “I didn't know you were such a dullard, old bear. Haven't I made it clear enough?”

Sandor felt himself softening as well, his posture slumping with relief. He shook his head, at himself and at the situation.

Thoros put the candle on the empty shelf beside them and moved into Sandor's space. He didn't reach for Sandor, just stood close enough for them to exchange breath. The liquor on his breath was faint, not the stench it would have been if Thoros had been truly drunk.

“I don't want to fuck every cunt in this castle. Just your cunt,” Thoros said saucily, smirking, and Sandor, to his amazement, found himself chuckling softly. He thought, somehow, that their reconciliation shouldn't have been so easy, but being with Thoros had grown to feel natural to him.

Sandor reached for him first, hooking an arm around his waist and pulling him until their chests brushed. Thoros tipped back his head, the invitation apparent, and Sandor took him up on the offer, leaning down and pressing his mouth to Thoros's.

Later, when they lay on their makeshift pallet of dirty linens, their bodies twined together and sticky with drying semen, Sandor watched Thoros's face hungrily in the feeble light of the candle. He knew they would probably never lay together like this again, and cursed himself for the wasted days they could have spent together. He felt foolish but mostly he just felt regret. 

Thoros looked warmly up at Sandor, deep wrinkles radiating on either side of his sparkling blue eyes.

“You're-” Sandor began, but caught the tender words between his teeth. Thoros lifted his eyebrows, his eyes prompting. “You're beautiful,” he said gruffly, then immediately rolled onto his back, looking up at the ceiling so he wouldn't have to see the mirth in Thoros's face at the absurd compliment. Seven hells, what was wrong with him? Had his imminent death gone to his head? He'd killed men for saying less ridiculous things than that.

Thoros's face appeared at the edge of his vision as the old priest curled into Sandor's side and propped his cheek in his hand. 

“You don't have to tell me I'm a fool,” Sandor muttered, his cheeks still red. “I know.”

“You aren't a fool,” Thoros said and Sandor risked a glance over at him. “You're just in love with me. You must be, if you think an ugly old drunk like me is beautiful.”

Sandor whipped his head around sharply, stunned by his words. Love? Of all the presumptuous statements! Did Thoros think they were maidens who believed in love and knights? Did he really think that Sandor could ever be someone who could love him? “I-” he began.

Thoros laid a hand on his arm. “You don't have to tell me. I know it brings you comfort to pretend you don't care.”

Sandor got up on his elbows, feeling somehow as though it were a conversation too intense to have lying down. “Thoros-” he said, but again Thoros broke him off. He reached up and laid two caressing fingers against Sandor's lips.

Sandor didn't believe in love. He'd never seen it nor felt it. The lack of genuine affection was the star by which his entire life had been guided. Everything that he had ever experienced in his life had confirmed what he'd been taught at a young age: that everyone would eventually betray you. Everyone put their love of themselves first. Everyone you cared about left you.

“If you stay silent, you won't say anything you'll regret,” Thoros said, a little sadly. 

The reminder of how much Sandor fucked up everything did nothing to placate him- instead it made him angry, as though he had to prove how much he could ruin something precious. He shook Thoros's hands off of him roughly and sat, leaning away from Thoros.

“I care about fucking you,” Sandor snarled, the lies he told himself and the truth of what he felt a mess of confusion until even he wasn't sure what was real. “Aye, and I care about you living- I worked too fucking hard to keep your worthless hide alive. But only an imbecile would mistake that for-” 

“I don't believe you,” Thoros said firmly, his expression steely. He sat up as well, gathering his fur cloak around him, as though for reassurance, and his vulnerability crushed Sandor's anger as quickly as it had sparked.

Sandor put a hand over his eyes, groaning softly in defeat. “Thoros- I can't-” 

Apparently deciding Sandor was safe to touch again, Thoros put out a hand and clasped Sandor's forearm, near the wrist, as though he'd wanted to take Sandor's hand but he hadn't the courage.

“I don't believe you,” Thoros repeated, his voice soft but uncompromising. “I know what you've been told all your life. I know what you think of yourself. But you are _not_ an animal, and you are not unfeeling. Perhaps you don't love me-” Thoros paused, swallowing heavily before continuing, “but it isn't because you _can't._ ”

The tender emotions that Sandor didn't want to have were clawing at his insides, fighting to escape him after having been suppressed for too long. His tongue and lips wanted to kiss and reassure and his arms wanted to hold. It seemed as though his entire body strained towards Thoros, as though his flesh had developed a will contrary to his nature.

“No,” he croaked, appalled at the weakness in his voice, but unable to stop himself. “Don't. Not now. Maybe when this is over, if we live. Maybe then I can...” _love you._

Saying the words out loud made them seem far too much like hope.

He looked up at Thoros, at the priest's trusting face and almost hated him a little for daring to trust Sandor- for expecting things from Sandor that he didn't know if he could give.

Thoros was on his knees now, and when he tentatively reached out for Sandor he let Thoros put his arms around his shoulders and crawl into his lap as though he belonged there.

“I love you, you stubborn old bear,” Thoros said into his ear, and Sandor shook his head mutely.

“Don't. Not until this is over,” he said harshly- no, he pleaded. He couldn't. He couldn't. Not if Thoros was only going to be taken from him.

“I love you,” Thoros just whispered, his hands in his hair and his lips pressing to Sandor's cheeks, jaw and neck. “I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and it got schmoopy, I'm sorry. I know GOT fanfiction shouldn't be sappy, and I always begin with good intentions of keeping the world brutal, but then I fall in love with my characters being in love, and it just happens. I hope it at least feels like they 'earned' this and it wasn't too easy for them.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is an exciting chapter for me! Arya and Sandor finally meet and the final battle goes down.

Thoros's arm was under Sandor's cloak and tucked around his back snugly, ostensibly for warmth, but more likely for comfort. Before them a fire crackled and above them the inky sky sprawled for miles in all directions. Sandor alternated between looking up at the stars, and watching the way Thoros's thin hair whipped around his wind reddened cheeks. Both were beautiful to him.

They'd been traveling North for three days, everyone knowing that each night might be their last. The aura of desperation over the camp was so thick Sandor felt like he was stumbling over it, especially once the business of camp making had quieted. Over the whisper of the wind and the sounds of thousands of voices, Sandor could hear the soft sobbing of frightened women and children.

“I heard that rangers say we'll meet the army of the dead within three days,” Beric said, his tone neutral, as though he weren't as afraid as the rest of them. Perhaps he wasn't. Perhaps you ceased to fear death, after dying as many times as Beric had. 

Thoros's arm around Sandor tightened and they exchanged a glance. Three days wasn't enough. It seemed to Sandor the bitterest sort of irony, that he'd spent his entire life not knowing that he'd been looking for what he'd found with Thoros, and now he would die as soon as he'd found it. 

Snowflakes were gathering in Thoros's beard and eyebrows and in the warm light of the fire his eyes blazed with stubborn life. Sandor wanted to kiss him; to forget for a moment that their time together dwindled so quickly he couldn't hold on to it hard enough. He might have done it, too, if he hadn't felt the unmistakable press of a blade against his back as he turned to his lover. It wasn't pressing firmly enough to cut through his cloak, but he knew what a blade felt like, even through layers of clothing. He stiffened instantly and his hand went to the hilt of his sword, his instincts overriding his shock. He hadn't heard anyone approach, even though he lived in a state of alertness.

“You're still on my list, you know,” a chilly voice whispered into his ear, and the recognition of the voice made Sandor feel as though he'd been punched in the gut.

He felt Thoros peer over his shoulder, his arm dropping from around Sandor's waist. “Arya!” Thoros said reproachfully.

Heedless of the blade now, he stood up from the log they'd been perched on and faced the girl he'd thought of so often over the years. 

She'd grown, and it somehow surprised Sandor, who'd thought of her as a little girl for so long that he'd never once considered what she might look like as a woman. She was still short, but her figure was rounded and more womanly and her face had lost the softness of childhood. She was handsomer than he'd expected, too, for all that she was sharp and steely. Her eyes were bright and devilish and she looked strong and confident. She held her thin little sword with authority, as though now she knew how to use it.

“There's the Wolf bitch,” he said, feeling breathless. He'd acknowledged to himself his eagerness to see her with his own eyes, but he hadn't known how he would feel when he did. He felt a little as though he'd been struck a blow that left him staggering, and a little like he did when he walked through wet puddles of melting snow after a long winter, the hope of spring in the air. 

Arya's solemn face twitched and a slow smirk quirked up her thin lips. She withdrew the sword with a theatrical flourish, no doubt something her cunt Braavosi dancing master had taught her, and brought it up to rest behind her back, adopting an alert pose. She inclined her head at Thoros and Beric in acknowledgment, but her focus remained on Sandor.

“You lived,” Sandor said, finally. It wasn't much, as greetings went, but the rawness in his voice expressed more that he'd intended.

“So did you,” Arya said, glancing down at his leg, clearly remembering the protruding bone and the blood.

“I'm...” It hurt him, to express himself. But gods dammit, if he couldn't speak now at what would most likely be the end of his life, when could he? “I'm glad... you lived, Wolf Girl.”

Arya opened her mouth, as though to return the sentiment, then closed it again, a conflicted look on her face. Perhaps it was too much vulnerability for her. Maybe Sandor really was still on her list. Sandor found he didn't particularly care what the girl thought of him; it wouldn't change how much lighter and unburdened he felt to know that he hadn't failed her after all.

“You threatened to cut Gendry's throat if he hurt me?” she asked, as though to guide the conversation something safer.

Sandor gave her an assessing look. “You look like you can take care of yourself,” he admitted, making her smile for the first time.

“I can,” she agreed, and an uncomfortable sort of silence fell between them. He'd thought, all these years, that if he ever saw her again he'd ask why she hadn't killed him when he'd begged for it. The question had plagued him for _years._ Or, at least, he thought it had. There was so much that Sandor had wanted to ask her, and yet faced with her, alive and whole, he realized that all he'd ever really cared about was that she'd lived. 

Arya seemed equally uncertain. Although her posture remained disciplined and her grip on her sword did not waver, her eyes seemed unable to rest on his face for long. They darted around restlessly, returning to his face only briefly before skittering away nervously. 

“Jon has decided,” she said at last. “We will wait here. Bran says the army will come to us in two days time. Rest while you can, Hound.” She relaxed her stance and turned, as though to walk away.

“Arya!” Sandor said impulsively, making the girl turn around with an expression difficult to interpret. He hadn't known what he'd meant to say, only that he wasn't sure if he would see her again, and he couldn't let her leave without saying words that _meant something_. “Stay alive, Arya Stark,” he said quietly, and dipped his head a little, showing her more respect than he had shown kings and queens.

She paused, and then returned the little nod. “Sandor Clegane,” she said, and turned away, making her way through the crowd of people. Only once did she glance back over her shoulder at Sandor, their eyes meeting over the distance, and then she was gone.

“That's the first time she ever called me by my name,” Sandor said to Thoros, his eyes still looking for her in the darkness. He felt Thoros put his arm around him again and allowed himself to lean in to his lover's warmth.

**

Two days later the dead army found them. As they surrounded the living army, in masses far larger than Sandor could have imagined in his worst nightmares, thousands upon thousands of them, he realized they stood no chance. They'd stand as long as they could; they'd give it their best, but Westeros as it had been for thousands of years was over. All the cruelty of humanity would be washed away, as well as the little glimpses of beauty. 

Thoros would die. Arya would die. Everyone Sandor cared about and everyone he hated would die, death coming indiscriminately to all. 

Overhead Daenerys's dragons shrieked in rage as their dead brother crested the horizon, spouting icy fire from his gaping maw. Around Sandor their army was crying out in terror, and when Sandor craned his head to where Beric and Thoros were standing a few paces ahead, he saw naked fear on Thoros's face. That intense need to protect welled up inside him, stronger than ever before, even though he knew he was helpless to save him.

Sandor seized the back of Thoros's neck, squeezing until Thoros looked away from the dragon and up at him. “I'm going to take out a thousand of those fuckers before I die,” he boasted wildly, not even sure what he was saying, only that he couldn't bear that the last memory he would have of Thoros's face was that it was contorted with fear.

Thoros laughed, a little hysterically. “I know you will, Sandor,” he said, and leaned in to Sandor's chest, as easily as though they were alone.

Sandor looked up again. Daenerys's dragons were flying over the dead, silhouetted by the setting sun, and blasting them with fire. Around the edges of the living army skirmishes with the dead were already breaking out in small groupings as the two armies met.

Sandor pulled Thoros close to him and kissed him hard, one last time. It didn't matter who saw. Nothing much mattered at that point. He wished he knew something he could say, something to inspire the priest to live as long as he could, but he knew of nothing more inspiring than the knowledge that if they died they'd be turned into monsters.

Thoros grabbed his tunic and pulled them tightly together, his mouth parting passionately and their tongues clashing greedily for a few precious moments before Sandor reluctantly pulled away from perhaps the last sweet thing he would ever feel. 

“You were right, you old fucker,” he said gracelessly. “I know it doesn't matter now, but I do love you.”

Thoros gave him a brittle smile and reluctantly released him. “It matters to me,” he said over the screams of dragons and men. 

Sandor gave Thoros one last, lingering look, and then pulled his sword from its sheath with one hand and his dragon glass dagger with the other. The blade glittered in the sun, hungry for death.

The fight for humanity began.

**

_Many hours later_

Sandor staggered around like one of the battling corpses, so weary that he often stumbled to his knees, half asleep, only to force himself to his feet again when a wight broke out of the cover of night and charged him. He felt as though he had killed a thousand of them already- maybe even a hundred thousand- but still they came. Horribly, he thought he even recognized some of the ones he cut down, comrades who'd begun the battle as his ally, but had been turned against him by the Night King. He lived in dread of seeing Thoros, who he'd been separated from many hours before. Whether the old priest had been lost in the chaos of battle or struck down and brought back as a wight, he could not say.

He tried not to, but he began to imagine what kind of soldier he would make, when he was dead. Would he be as strong as he'd been alive? As fierce? Would the burned side of his face rot away first, or would the thick, gnarled flesh cling like leather to his bare skull, all other recognizable features melted away?

The sun had slipped down the horizon that first day, bathing the battlefield in darkness, and still Sandor had fought. He'd fought when the sun rose again, and he continued to fight on, even now that the sun was a mere memory once more and the only light to see by was the fire that surrounded him on all sides. 

The fire was even more overwhelming and overpowering than it had been at the Battle of the Blackwater. Smoke choked his lungs. People, both living and dead, screamed past him, trailing flames like long streaming hair behind them. He'd tried to outrun the fire, but it rained down on them all. 

Maybe if Daenerys, in a horrifying mockery of her father's madness, burned them all- every moving thing on the frozen field- maybe then the humans who remained behind in Westeros might live. 

Another wight ran at Sandor, and in the smokey darkness he almost mistook it for a human, before he saw that its wild eyes glinted unnaturally blue. Almost too exhausted to move, Sandor brought his sword up at the last moment and the wight ran into it, impaling itself on cold steel and wriggling fruitlessly. Sandor brought up his other arm, plunging the dragon glass dagger into its side and it fell dead. 

Fire dripped down from above and Sandor lurched on, seeking clean air, somewhere he could rest and recover his breath. He was vaguely aware that above him all three of the dragons battled, the ice dragon flanked by the two living ones, but his heart was beating so hard it felt like it might stop altogether and the fire behind him was only slightly more horrifying than the fire before him.

The fire whispered to him, as though the Lord of Light were trying to send him a message, to show him another vision, but his eyes darted too quickly to see it.

He careened through patches of slushy, melting snow, squeezing through pillars of fire, and ran, no longer even trying to kill wights, his panic having entirely taken over his sanity. When he came upon Thoros and Beric, he almost slaughtered them in his haste to get past them.

Beric had lost his eye patch at some point and Thoros was covered in blood and gore, as though he'd taken a bath in it, but beneath the frenzy he recognized his bedraggled top knot and his beautiful blue, human eyes. Sandor faltered to a stop, coughing and gasping for air. He squinted into the night at Thoros and took a hesitant step closer.

“Thoros?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper, worn almost completely away.

Thoros, recognizing Sandor, ran to him, pulling him tight to his chest and hugging him close. “Have you been fighting this whole time? I thought you were dead,” Thoros said, but Sandor was too tired to reply. He slowly lifted an arm and hugged him back weakly. He closed his eyes and, with the comfort of his lover's arms around him, he found himself near sleep almost immediately, right where he stood. He was so tired he almost wished he _were_ dead, if only he would stay dead and not rise again. 

There were worse ways to die, after all, than in the arms of the man you-

“Sandor!” Thoros cried and gave Sandor a harsh shake. Sandor stumbled away, confused, and was caught by Beric on his other side.

“Look,” Beric hissed, and pointed through the cloud of smoke that covered the ground. “It's the Night King. The leader.”

Sandor wanted to contradict him, to tell him that the Night King rode the ice dragon that battled Daenerys in the sky, but when he peered through the fog he saw that Beric was right. The Night King stood with three lieutenants, a few dozen feet away. They were inhumanly silent, their eyes trained on the battling dragons above. And of course, that made sense. The Night King would not risk himself while his dragon was attacked on both sides by Daenerys and her two living dragons. He'd probably dropped out of the sky when he'd been surrounded. The death of the ice dragon would be a blow, no doubt, but it wouldn't defeat them. The dead were winning, and everyone knew it.

“Sandor, if we kill the Night King-”

“We kill them all,” finished Beric, his face solemn.

“The rest of his lieutenants will come. They always surround him. Protect him. This is our chance,” Thoros said quickly. “This is it, Sandor. This is why the Lord of Light brought us together.”

Sandor was ready to die. He almost wanted to. If he could just do this one last thing, perhaps he could finally die in peace.

Sandor gripped his sword, adrenaline and one last surge of strength flowing through him. He nodded grimly. “I'll take the king,” he said, knowing even weak and exhausted he was the best and the strongest. “You distract the others.”

Thoros and Beric wiped fire up the lengths of their swords and pulled out the dragon glass daggers they wore at their sides. The three men charged.

Sandor would later remember the fight only in flashes of memory. Beric reached them first, moving stealthily enough to take them by surprise, and while the lieutenants were still withdrawing their weapons he struck down his first White Walker, moving in close to tear his dagger through the beasts' chest like slicing through silk. The White Walker crumpled immediately, ice fragmenting and crumbling away. Sandor knew that all around the battlefield, the wights that this lieutenant had animated were falling down dead.

Before Beric could pull back his dagger to strike again, however, the second lieutenant was on him, landing a back handed blow to Beric's skull so powerful that it launched his body a dozen feet before it fell to the ground. 

Thoros screamed in rage and cut the White Walker's throat while the beast's hand was still raised. The second lieutenant shattered like a broken mirror.

The last lieutenant dashed at Thoros, beating him back with mighty swings of his ice sword. Thoros's flaming sword flew to the side and then he was left dodging the long reach of White Walker's sword, unable to get in close enough to use his dagger. Sandor wanted to go to him, to save him, but he knew he had only one chance to kill the King while the lieutenant was distracted. 

The King met him with his sword out, a large, powerful blade that was encrusted with ice. The reverberation of steel meeting ice tingled down his hand and all the way to his shoulder, making him lurch away with a gasp as his own sword shattered with the force, the tiny shards of frozen steel falling like rain down to the ground. 

The Night King calmly lifted his sword again, as though completely unaffected. The dead, Sandor knew, never grew tired.

Sandor dropped the useless hilt of his sword and switched the dragon glass dagger to his dominant hand and charged again, knowing he would be killed and knowing he had no other choice. With difficulty he stopped the downward stroke of the King's sword with his dagger, holding the hilt tightly with both hands just to withstand his strength. And then the King drew his sword back again and it was all Sandor could do to keep his head while the Night King effortlessly brought his sword down again and again. 

Using every ounce of his strength he was able to block the swings with the dragon glass, but Sandor was losing. The Night King's sword was longer and stronger than the dragon glass dagger and the he was more skilled and untiring. If the Lord of Light had brought Sandor here to defeat the Night King, he'd chosen the wrong man.

And then he heard Thoros yell, and in a moment of inexcusable distraction he'd later blame on his exhaustion he turned his head to check his lover's safety. 

His hand was writhing on the ground, dagger still clutched in his fist, before he even felt the blow. The pain didn't come until after, when he was hit in the face with the spray of his own blood. Then the shock and the pain came screaming up to consume him, like a horde of wild horses galloping up his throat. He fell to his knees, hunched over the stump where his arm had once been. He couldn't even cry out, he could only stretch his mouth wide in horror, choked, broken noises escaping his throat while the Night King watched Sandor impassively. 

Thoros screamed again, and Sandor lifted his head slowly to see Thoros scrambling away from a steadily approaching White Walker. His flaming sword and dragon glass were long gone and the White Walker was unharmed.

Thoros was going to die. He was going to die, they all were, and even though Sandor had told himself he had no hopes for any of their survival, in that moment he realized how wrong he'd been. Hope was a weed that grew back, no matter how many times you pulled it up by the roots. Sandor had hopes, just like any man, and Thoros was an integral part of them.

It was strangely difficult to get to his feet when he was unbalanced by the loss of his arm, but Sandor managed. He shuffled over the snowy ground to where his own right arm twitched and slammed his foot down on the wrist, causing the dead fingers to splay and loosen their grip on the hilt of the dagger. With his left hand he picked the dagger up. 

Out of the corner of his eye he could see that the White Walker was gaining on Thoros as the old priest blundered desperately away, searching for a sword or some sort of weapon to defend himself. 

Sandor had only one chance, and if he missed, all was lost.

The Night King was too far away to engage in combat again, even if Sandor would have had a hope of fighting him crippled by the loss of his arm. 

Sandor gripped the dagger in his left hand and drew it back over his shoulder. There was a ringing in his ears that was consuming all other noises and his vision was turning black around the edges, but he fought through it, one last time. He blinked away the darkness, and looked into the Nigh King's eyes. And then, with the very last dregs of strength he had left in his body, he heaved the dagger through the air, straight at the Night King.

Immediately he fell, his back hitting the ground hard enough to knock the wind from his chest. Blood from his stump splattered down on his face like rain. He was done. He'd done all he could. He didn't even have the strength to lift his head and see if his aim had been true.

An hour passed, or perhaps only a moment, and then Thoros was at his side, his bloody hands on his face and hair and chest.

“Sandor! He's dead. You did it!” Thoros yelled in his face, and when Sandor blearily opened his eyes he saw the astonishing sight of the ice dragon falling silently from the night sky.

Thoros was covered in blood, but he'd live, Sandor thought. Westeros would live. A small smile quirked up Sandor's lips. He could die in peace.

And then Thoros, the cunt, pulled up his flaming sword, his face grim.

“No!” Sandor croaked, raising his head and finding strength a moment ago he hadn't known he possessed. “Just- let me- die!”

Thoros shook his head sadly and then pulled up a knee so he could sit on Sandor's chest, to keep him from struggling.

Thoros's mouth was set and determined. “You are not dying today,” he said, and brought the flaming, red hot sword down to Sandor's bleeding stump.

Sandor, mercifully, fainted before the smell of his own seared flesh could even reach his nostrils.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sandor is the Prince who was promised, duh! If you didn't see that one coming you clearly haven't read the same fan theories I have. ;D


	11. Chapter 11

Sandor was being carried through the snow. Thoros cradled his head and shoulders in his arms and two wildlings and a Northman held his uninjured limbs. There was shouting around him and he caught glimpses of quick movement out of the corner of his eyes, but no one noticed that he was awake. He stared at the moon, high up in the sky, until his eyeballs felt like they were floating away and then he sank back into oblivion again.

**

Someone was whimpering. He heard the soft susurration of a woman's voice, soothing the pitiful suffering cunt.

“Give him milk of the poppy, for mercy's sake,” the lovely woman's voice implored, but Sandor heard the tsking of a tongue.

“He won't like that,” said a steady voice, the one who'd scoffed. Arya, maybe.

“Do it anyway,” a man said, this voice close to his ear, and Sandor realized it was Thoros. “He never likes what's good for him.”

**

Sandor's world seemed to be consumed by rich, deep pain that throbbed and pulsed with every labored breath. His whole body seemed consumed by fire, as though he were bathing in flames. He was distantly aware that his body was submerged in water and swabbed with cool cloths, yet he could not escape the heat of his suffering. He wept and screamed and was comforted by cool hands and soothing voices, but he could not swim up through the fog of fever and medicated confusion to understand what was happening to him.

**

“Will he live?” It was an imperious female voice with a slight foreign accent that Sandor almost thought he knew. His body felt heavy and weak, yet his thoughts felt light, as though they floated above him, observing instead of participating. The tiny, rational part of him knew it was the effects of milk of the poppy.

“I- I hope so. He is wracked with fever and the wound has festered- but he is strong.” The voice was apologetic and uncertain- caught between wishing to please the female voice and admitting brutal facts. A Maester?

“He'll live,” a male voice said, and Sandor felt comfort wash over him at the familiar voice. Thoros, who believed in him even then. He was almost certain that his lover had stayed by his side almost constantly, but he was too befuddled to be certain. “He's too stubborn to die.”

“Good,” the female voice replied. “Tell him his queen will see him when he awakens.”

Daenerys, then.

“We march on King's Landing within two months and he has a duty to execute.”

Thoros paused before speaking, as though choosing his words carefully. Sandor could feel the tension in Thoros's body where his hand was resting on his shoulder, the thumb idly stroking the bare skin there. “Sandor has already sacrificed a great deal for the war, your majesty. He deserves peace now,” he said, perfectly respectful, but there was firmness beneath the submissive words. Sandor could picture the steely set of his mouth as though he were seeing it himself. 

“He will not have peace while his brother lives,” she said, not softening at all, and Sandor thought he heard her move further into the room. He opened his eyes blearily and watched her and saw when she recognized he was awake. 

Thoros, who hadn't noticed, stood firmly by Sandor's side, his hand still on his good shoulder. “Please, forgive me, my queen- but. His arm. He will not be able to fight any longer.” 

Daenerys looked away from Thoros and back at Sandor. She was beautiful, even with a jagged cut across her face that was still puffy and flaming red, clearly a wound taken in the final battle. Her cold expression warmed slightly and Sandor found himself wanting to smile back, even though the fever that muddled his thoughts kept him from truly understanding the situation.

“I do not suggest he kill Gregor in single handed combat, priest. There are others who wish him dead. I only suggest that he deserves the right to be present, to see the death of his brother in person.”

“O-oh,” Thoros said, sounding a little like a chastened school boy. Strange how Daenerys had that effect on men.

“He is lucky in his friends,” Daenerys said, just a little more warmth creeping in to her voice. “Already two people have volunteered to murder his brother in Sandor's name.” Then she turned to leave. “Keep him alive,” she commanded as she departed. 

“It will have to be cauterized again.” The Maester said in his apologetic way. If Sandor lived through this, he'd cut the bastard's dick off and cauterize the stump with a red hot skewer.

Struck with a sudden bolt of panic that did more to awaken him than anything else had, he tried to turn his head but found than he was somehow restricted. He tried to move his legs next, but to his horror found that he could move nothing, as though his limbs had been strapped down.

“He's fighting again! Give him more milk of the poppy!”

Knowing what the butchers who held him in their clutches had in store for him, Sandor did not try to fight them as they poured the bitter liquid down his throat. Maybe they'd give him too much and put him out of his misery. 

**

Sandor's waking moments began to grow more lucid as his body fought off fever and infection, slowly but surely, but he did not become fully back to himself until what seemed to him a very long time had passed. His first sober memory was of lifting his head and blearily looking around a small but well furnished room that reminded him of Yohn Royce's bedchamber at Wintefell.

He squinted at the familiar rug before the crackling fire where he'd once taken a bath with Thoros. No, it _was_ Yohn Royce's room. 

“Sandor?” a husky, tired voice asked, and when Sandor painfully turned his head on his pillow he saw Thoros curled up in a chair by the bed, clearly having awoken from a doze.

He tried to speak, but his voice was raspy and weak. It served to awaken Thoros, however, who rushed to his side with a pitcher of water and a ladle.

“The Maester said to give you as much water as you could take,” he said, after giving Sandor a quick kiss on the forehead that Sandor would have found condescending if he'd had the energy.

“Wh-what?” Sandor croaked, the single word giving him such trouble that he did not try to force more out.

Thoros seemed to understand anyway, filling him in on what had happened since Sandor had killed the Night King and lost his arm.

The death of the Night King had effectively ended the war. The dead had fallen down as corpses at last, never to rise again, and they had been left where they fell, to freeze over the winter or provide meat for scavengers. 

The living had sustained terrible losses, but Sandor listened in bewilderment as Thoros reassured him that those he cared most about- Arya, Tormund, Davos, Sansa, Daenerys, Brienne and even fucking Beric Dondarrion, had lived. 

“You- brought him- back- again?” Sandor wheezed between the spoonfuls of water that Thoros forced on him, but the priest just grinned and shook his head.

“No! He broke his arm when he landed and he did not awaken from a stupor for a day, but he didn't die. He's got his arm in a sling but he's tottering around somewhere, nursing the children with Velsina.”

Sandor's stomach fell. “And- the children?” he asked, unsure he even wanted to know.

Thoros's smile dimmed. “Half of them lived,” he said heavily. That was just a more palatable way of saying that half of them had died. 

Sandor didn't bother to express his grief aloud. The world was a cruel one; children died, and many more would yet fall to the brutality of winter. But there would be more children. There would be another generation, and a generation after that. Humanity had survived.

Sandor realized he was smiling. 

Thoros looked at him strangely. “What is it?” he asked, putting a hand to Sandor's brow as though to check for a return of his fever, a smile on Sandor's face clearly being so odd as to cause alarm. 

“We lived,” Sandor said, wonderingly. His laugh was little more than a croak and his voice was a ruined whisper. “I'm always so certain we'll die- and that time I really did think the end had come- and yet...”

Thoros smiled softly and touched his palm to Sandor's cheek. He leaned down and pressed his lips to Sandor's stale mouth. “You'll die in your bed, a crotchety old fucker surrounded by the ones you love, if I have anything to say about it.” 

**

Sandor was a strong man, and it did not take long for him to grow restless, even when the Maester, (a former Night's Watch man too fucking earnest and good-natured for Sandor to actually murder) insisted he remain abed and regain his strength. In truth, anything more than a hobbling trip to the chamber pot left him breathless. 

Soon the wonder of living subsided and his temper returned, as foul as ever.

“I've invited visitors,” Thoros said one afternoon when he returned to Sandor's chambers after an excursion into the castle that Sandor tried to tell himself he wasn't jealous of. Yohn Royce's death on the battlefield had upgraded their accommodations to his luxurious bedchambers, but Sandor had grown to loathe the room and its ugly, boring walls he'd stared at for days. 

Thoros hurried over to Sandor and began to arrange a blanket over his bare chest and kick discarded clothing under the bed. Since Sandor's fever had broken and it had become clear he would recover, they'd had few visitors beyond the Maester, and had begun to live like bachelors, with dirtied clothing, weapons and empty plates scattered on every available surface. The pallet in the corner of the room that Thoros ostensibly slept in, for appearances, was rumpled and covered with books.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Sandor growled, thrashing out from under the covers feebly with his one good arm. “It's a fucking furnace in here. I don't want a bloody blanket.”

“It's that or a tunic, old bear,” Thoros said fondly. “Unless you want to shock the ladies with your nudity. And your-” Thoros's eyes fell to the thickly bandaged stump where his right arm had been and closed his mouth over the words. As though Sandor had forgotten.

Sandor rolled his eyes. Every child, woman and eunuch at Winterfell had seen men's chests, and much worse than a missing arm. “I don't give a shit who I shock. The bloody Queen herself can play cyvasse on my arse cheeks for all that I care.”

Thoros's wrinkled face broke into a grin at Sandor's surly coarseness. “It's Lady Sansa, Sandor,” he whispered mischievously, and Sandor froze in shock. He'd only see the girl from a distance since returning to Wintefell, though he had a vague sort of impression that she'd visited and comforted him when he'd been insensible with fever, but he had almost dismissed the possibility that he would speak to her again himself.

“Oh, all right,” he growled, his stomach beginning to flutter with nerves. “Give me a bloody tunic,” he said ungraciously.

** 

Sansa had grown in both height and beauty. She probably stood above most other women, save Brienne, yet it was her poise and presence that made her truly unique. Arya and Brienne hung behind her, both looking dignified and remarkable in their own way, but somehow _less_ compared to the eldest Stark girl. 

Thoros had helped him sit up in the bed and had tried to make him presentable- combing quickly through his greasy hair and wiping his face with a damp cloth, but he felt old and shabby next to Sansa. He felt inadequate, too. There were so many ways in which he had failed the girl.

“Sansa,” he said gruffly, then glanced away, not able to look at her face for very long. He felt suddenly very self-conscious of his missing arm, and the pitiful way his sleeve hung limply where his fighting arm had been. What use was he to anyone without his fighting arm, anyway? What use could he be to Sansa?

“Ser-” Sansa began, her composure slipping slightly as she recalled his loathing of the title. “Sandor Clegane,” she said instead, and inclined her head slightly. “On behalf of the North, I thank you for your services during the war. You saved us. And I- I am pleased to see your health improved.”

“I- didn't-” Sandor began, wanting to explain that he hadn't done it for the North, or for humanity. In the end he'd done it for Thoros, because he couldn't bear to lose him. Yet, he certainly couldn't explain that to Sansa. Instead he ignored the praise.

“You grew up, little bird,” Sandor said, directing the conversation away from himself. He felt warm and unsettled, as he'd always been around the girl. It wasn't because she was lovely, though she was, certainly. Sandor had known many beautiful women in his life and had been unmoved by them all. It was Sansa's sweetness and fragile innocence that had aroused in him the instinct to protect and shelter. He'd been an utter fucking failure, of course- he'd frightened the poor thing more than he'd ever managed to protect her, but he'd _wanted_ to be her champion. 

She did not look fragile and young any longer. Although he knew she was not more than twenty, her gaze was unflinching and cold. Her innocence, whatever might have remained the last time he'd seen her, had been buried under cold Northern steel. 

“She's the Lady of Winterfell now, Clegane,” Brienne said from behind her lady, but not sharply. Her expression was solicitous and concerned- for him, he supposed, though it was a foreign sort of thought. She'd once nearly killed him. Now she cared if he lived?

“Lady Stark,” Sandor said, and bowed his head slightly, even though the gesture put strain on muscles that ached throughout his entire body. “You made it back to Winterfell after all.”

“It was a hard road,” Sansa allowed, her gaze softening slightly. 

He didn't want to know what had happened to Sansa after he'd left King's Landing. He carried enough guilt over abandoning her as it was, and he simply didn't want to know. 

“Don't be so formal, Sansa!” Arya said impatiently, as though she'd been holding her tongue for as long as she could. “Sandor didn't suddenly become a gentle knight because he saved our arses.”

She elbowed past her regal sister and plopped down on the bed next to Sandor's long legs, leaning on a hand and looking at Sandor with much more comfort than she had during the awkward meeting before the battle. Sandor thought she'd been often present while he recovered, though he clearly remembered little of it. 

Arya grinned at him, flashing her sharp little teeth. “You're still a cross old fuck like you always were, aren't you Sandor?” she asked, and there was the smallest hint of uncertainty. _Be the man I remember,_ her voice seemed to say. _Be someone I can trust._

“He's still a grouchy old bear, no worries about that,” Thoros reassured her, and Sandor shot a tired but amused look at Thoros.

Arya stayed long after Sansa and Brienne had exchanged a few pleasantries and departed, the Lady of Winterfell's work calling her away. 

“Brienne will keep her safe,” Sandor said musingly when they departed, not even realizing he'd spoken aloud until Arya spoke.

“You told me that you wished you'd fucked my sister,” Arya said, her voice not so much accusing as considering. “You said you should have fucked her bloody.”

“I said that to make you angry enough to kill me!” Sandor said defensively, scowling at her furiously. He wasn't proud of the things he'd said when he'd tried to provoke him to kill her, and didn't appreciate having the words thrown at him while he was weak and unarmed. 

“Oh, I know that,” Arya said coolly. “You taunted me about Mycah, too. I just wondered... did you really want to fuck Sansa?” she asked, glancing slyly over at Thoros, who was sitting in a chair by the bed, near enough to speak but giving them the outward appearance of privacy, with a book in his hands and his head bent over it.

Sandor glanced over at his lover as well, then shook his head firmly. “No,” he said emphatically. “She was a child. I don't fuck children.”

“You kill them,” she said meanly, her eyes glittering. “You killed Mycah.” 

He sighed and leaned his head back against the headboard. The pain in his arm was making his head throb. “I killed the butcher's boy,” he said tiredly. “I've killed so many cunts just like him that I can barely remember it, do you know that, girl? I remember your fury, -I won't forget that- but his death? His pleas for mercy? The noises he made as I ran him through with my sword? No. He was just another dead body.” He opened his eyes and saw that her face was flushed and her eyes were narrowed. 

Out of the corner of his eye Sandor could see Thoros put down his book and look at them with concern, but after a few moments Arya's tense shoulders relaxed. He'd almost thought she might draw out Needle and finish him at last, but her hands remained in her lap, though they were curled tightly into fists.

“I'm sorry he's dead, Arya. I regret killing a lot of fucking people that I've killed, but it won't make them any less dead. I can do nothing to bring him back. I'm sorry.”

Thoros, who'd given up any pretense of not listening, put his book down and smiled wistfully at Arya. “Take what you can get, girl. He's never apologized to me before,” Thoros said, and ignored Sandor when he shot a malevolent look at him.

“I don't remember him very well either,” Arya finally admitted, her tone indicating that she would let the topic go, if not forgive Sandor. “It seems so long ago. And I was so different then that it almost might have been someone else.”

“Well I haven't changed,” he said harshly. “I'm a nasty fucker, just like I always was, and if you're expecting better from me you'll be disappointed.”

Arya allowed a soft smile to curl up the corners of her mouth- it was a forgiving smile, he thought. “I think you've changed,” she said finally, and changed the subject before Sandor could argue with her.


	12. Chapter 12

Once Sandor was free from the clutches of his fever and could eat more nourishing food than broth, he rapidly regained his strength. He'd been almost insensible with fever for a week after his injury, but he was assured by the Maester that he was actually making a remarkable recovery. Sandor attributed it to his own hearty constitution and stubbornness, and Thoros took the credit for his diligence in nursing.

He was amazed how the loss of his arm changed everything about the way his body moved, from his balance while walking to performing the simple tasks he'd previously taken for granted. He still got more food on his tunic than in his mouth when he attempting to use utensils with his left hand and no matter how much he cursed and shouted he still could not pull on his boots single handed. 

Sandor's confidence in his physical self returned only gradually, one hard fought victory after another. For weeks Sandor and Thoros did nothing more strenuous than walk the halls of Winterfell, going out to see Arya fight with Gendry or watch Tormund flirt with Brienne while Jamie Lannister looked on suspiciously. 

“Never thought I'd see the day Brienne of fucking Tarth would have two men fighting over her,” Sandor said to Thoros over a month after his injury as they slowly walked up the stairs that would take them to the top of the castle, so they could overlook the grounds of Winterfell. It was as many stairs as he'd taken since his injury and Sandor silently appreciated the way Thoros ignored Sandor's panting breath and wan color. He appreciated the steadying arm Thoros had around his waist as well and how they could both pretend it was only affection.

“Who will she pick, do you think?” 

“Oh, both,” he said, and chuckled when Thoros's eyebrows rose. Truthfully he didn't think Brienne would pick either. Her sense of duty to Sansa was too strong and she'd spent too long believing herself unlovable, but it amused him to consider otherwise. “Oh, aye,” he assured him. “She's a big woman, there's enough to go around. Jamie can lick her cunt and imagine it's his sister while Tormund fucks her from behind and pretends she's a bear.”

“Sandor!” Thoros said, obviously trying to sound reproving, and not quite achieving it. Thoros had as ribald a sense of humor as anyone and when he looked at Sandor he was grinning like an imp. “Brienne is your friend!”

“Friend?” Sandor asked, still unsure. She'd tried to kill him. But then, so had Arya, and once Thoros had wished for Beric to kill Sandor instead of the other way around, so he supposed he could forgive her for that. It seemed that to truly be Sandor's friend you had to have attempted to kill him first and failed. “She'd enjoy it,” he insisted. “I'll suggest it to her.”

“You won't!” Thoros said slyly, as though to goad Sandor. That was one of the things about Thoros that Sandor liked best: he didn't try to curb any of Sandor's worst impulses.

They arrived at the castle's roof after what felt to Sandor like thousands of stairs. Two months previously he could have stormed all the way to the top without becoming winded, but he was still weaker than he'd like to admit. 

A thick layer of snow crunched under their shuffling feet, and Thoros propped his shoulder against Sandor to subtly give him more stability. Thoros slowly lead Sandor to the wall that looked over Winterfell's courtyard and they peered through the snow at the Unsullied and Dothraki covering the landscape, biding their time until they would leave ahead of Daenerys's party, headed towards Cersei in King's Landing. 

“So you'll go then?” Thoros asked after a while, looking at the armies instead of Sandor. Sandor could feel the way his body was stiff with tension- he doubted Thoros realized how hard he clutched at Sandor's waist. “To King's Landing? Lady Sansa would have us here for the winter.”

Sandor knew that Thoros didn't particularly approve of Sandor participating in any part of the death of Gregor, but Thoros also wasn't one to try and control Sandor's actions. He looked over at Thoros, and wondered for the first time if Thoros was so opposed to the journey that he might choose to stay, regardless of what Sandor decided. 

“Is that what you want?” he asked, feeling a stirring of fear as Thoros finally looked away from the armies and met Sandor's eye. Was the death of his brother really worth sacrificing Thoros? The answer seemed, more and more, to be _no_. 

“Bran says it will be a short winter. He says that the seasons will grow shorter now that the Night King is dead.”

Sandor had heard the same thing, but he had a hard time imagining it. They said that thousands of years before the long night, the seasons had been swift, each only lasting a few months before turning over to the next. It seemed impossible, but Bran had been right about everything else.

“But still... there are so many mouths to feed at Winterfell,” Thoros continued. “At least in King's Landing there will be fish from the sea.”

“Doesn't matter,” Sandor said morosely. “Thousands will die of starvation in King's Landing before we see spring again. If they don't die fighting for Cersei's miserable hide, anyway. Better to die fighting than die gnawing on your children's bones, I suppose. And what the _fuck_ is the queen going to do with her army once they've fulfilled their purpose and conquered King's Landing?” 

Thoros glanced around nervously at Sandor's rough words, but no one was close enough to overhear. “I don't know,” he admitted and they stood in silence for a while, both contemplating the vast amount of people that would be in King's Landing and the vast lack of food stores to get them through a long winter. “If the winter isn't a short one-” he began.

“King's Landing will be fucking wasteland. Winterfell too,” Sandor finished for him and they exchanged a dark look. They'd both seen starvation. 

“That's not where we want to be, then,” Thoros concluded, and it warmed Sandor, despite the cold, Thoros's easy assumption that wherever they went they would go together. “I ask the Lord to shine a light on our path and help us to understand His purpose,” Thoros said under his breath, his eyes closed in a quick prayer.

Thoros himself had always claimed to be a bad priest, and while he might not have been _bad,_ he certainly didn't spend a great deal of time talking about his faith. Sometimes Sandor even forgot that Thoros truly was a priest, until Thoros would say or do something and he'd be harshly reminded. 

“You wish to stay with me, then?” Sandor asked quickly, not looking at Thoros. He wondered if Thoros's god would require something else of him- something that would take him from Sandor.

Thoros didn't speak for a moment that seemed to last a long time. “Don't you... want me to?” he asked, and Sandor was surprised by the insecurity in his voice. He was so used to Thoros seeming so confident and sure in his affection that it startled him to hear him show uncertainty.

Warmth bubbled up in his chest, threatening to choke him. He wanted to remind Thoros that he loved him, but the words felt sticky and unwieldy, and he knew they wouldn't come out right. “Of course I do,” he said gruffly, and reached out his good hand to pull Thoros closer to his side. He wanted to kiss him but they were in too public a space, so he settled for turning his head so he could breathe in Thoros's scent and feel his soft hair against his cheek. 

He thought he felt Thoros shudder against him and heard his breath catch and he wanted to pull him closer, until there was nothing between them but the warmth of their shared breaths. Sandor's traumatic injury had prevented him from experiencing more than the most fleeting undercurrents of arousal, but he felt his body stirring at last at the proximity of his lover and the emotional charge between them.

“We should go back to our room, priest,” Sandor whispered to him, his tone leaving no question as to his intent.

“The Lord has shined a light on our path,” Thoros said saucily, and began to pull him towards to stairs, back to their room.

**

Later, as they lay curled together in Yohn Royce's bed, exhilarating in the stew of post-orgasmic hormones, Thoros looked up at Sandor, his head turning from where it rested on Sandor's shoulder.

“You said that if you lived over this you would go back to Clegane Keep,” he said, and immediately Sandor tensed at the mention. But he'd said it, and he'd meant it too. He'd just never expected to actually live over the war. “We could go there.”

“There won't be any food there,” Sandor protested. “There might not even be a Keep anymore. I wasn't jesting when I said the villagers might have burned it to the ground.”

“I don't think so,” Thoros said thoughtfully. “What purpose would that serve? Overrun by peasants, more likely. But Daenerys owes you. You won the war! She'll give us food and gold to restore it. We'll winter there and rebuild in the spring.”

Sandor flushed to hear himself described as a hero. He didn't think he was, but it was undeniably pleasant to hear Thoros say it like he meant it. And he had a point. He didn't think Daenerys would deny him anything reasonable he asked, and getting out of King's Landing before it was too late was the best idea he'd heard so far.

“Perhaps,” he allowed, but already he could tell he really meant yes.

“And Beric...” Thoros began, a little hesitantly.

Sandor lifted his eyebrows, realizing that he'd little thought what the old warrior would do now that his purpose had been served. Sandor didn't think anyone had expected him to survive, Beric least of all. Yet the man had been so busy with the children and Velsina that he hadn't seem adrift, as though he'd managed to find new purpose in his life now that he'd fulfilled the Lord of Light's mission. 

“Beric and Velsina wish to marry,” Thoros said, all in a rush. “I want them to come with us, to Clegane Keep. And a few of the orphans that Velsina has taken under her wing. They need a place to go and I won't leave them starve at Wintefell, if it comes to that.”

“Wait, what?” Sandor asked, befuddled. “I thought Velsina was in love with you?”

“That again?” Thoros asked in exasperation. “I told you no! Velsina has always been sweet on Beric. I think it began when I entertained her with stories of Beric's slightly exaggerated bravery while we were at Eastwatch, and Beric is so good with the children it softened her heart, made her see him as a father to her future children.”

“Fucking hell,” Sandor groaned. To think he'd ever feared that the wildling had been in love with Thoros when all along she'd been smitten with Beric. Clearly the woman had abysmal taste.

“Sandor,” Thoros prompted. “We'll need assistance with restoring and running Clegane Keep and Beric is- my friend. He's like a brother. And there are so many orphans and not enough people or food to care for them, it would be merciful to take a few.”

Sandor felt suddenly as though he'd somehow acquired a large family he was responsible for in a matter of moments. And yet, could he deny Thoros anything? “Oh all right,” he said ungraciously and ignored the way his stomach squirmed with pleasure when Thoros looked up at him, trust in his eyes. 

All Sandor's life he'd longed to protect instead of destroy. Perhaps he finally had his chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, damn, it's time to quite procrastinating and get this story done. I'm downright embarrassed how long it's taken me.
> 
> Anyway, I read a fan theory once that after the night king dies the seasons would become shorter and more regular. Since that's pretty much the only way I see the people of Westeros surviving, I'm going with that theory.


	13. Chapter 13

Another month passed before Daenerys's army left Winterfell, along with Beric, Velsina and their assortment of orphans. Sandor and Thoros would travel with Daenerys's party over the sea, and stayed behind a few extra days, giving them a chance to bid farewell to their companions.

Sandor found Brienne training with Jaime Lannister, as usual, her movements graceful and powerful. On a balcony above them Sansa stood and watched her champion, though she smiled a little and raised an elegant hand when Sandor approached Brienne.

Sandor nodded his head back, much more at ease with the young woman now that they'd spent more time together. It still pained him a little to think of what she'd been through, but Sansa was strong. She was a survivor and he hoped she would continue to do so through the hard years ahead. If anyone would, he believed it would be her.

“I'll protect her,” Brienne said from behind him, noticing where his eyes had drifted. 

“I know you will,” Sandor said, looking back at her and feeling as though he was entrusting a little piece of himself to the big woman. He didn't really understand what Sansa or Arya meant to him, only that the Stark girls were like the daughters he'd never have and like the sister he could barely remember. They were the living ghosts of his past regrets but also his hopes for the future.

“I'll protect Arya,” he said, for the youngest Stark girl would not be left behind while her enemies were killed, no matter how her siblings had protested, and intended to sail South with Daenerys. 

“You may have to protect her from herself,” Brienne said, her forehead creased in concern. “She is fearless, but fearing nothing is dangerous.”

“I'll do what I can,” he said, and she gave him an understanding look. There was only so much you could do to protect anyone without taking away their freedom, and Sandor would not do that to Arya again.

Sansa still watched them from above, and Brienne glanced up at her. “I should attend my lady,” she said, backing away a step.

“You're a lady too,” Sandor said, even though almost immediately he felt like running himself through with his own sword for speaking. What did it matter to him what Brienne did? If she wished to die a maid, what business was it of his?

Brienne, clearly expecting some sort of jibe, was scowling at him, her shoulders hunched up defensively. He saw her dart a glance to the side, where Jaime lurked out of earshot but not out of eyesight. Jaime would be staying at Winterfell as well, as per the Daenerys's orders. Though he'd fought on their side heroically during the war against the dead, Daenerys had not even entertained the notion of taking him to fight at King's Landing. He would remain at Winterfell, as something between a hostage and a guest. Privately, Sandor thought it was merciful to not give him a choice. There was no way Cersei would leave King's Landing alive, and testing Jaime would be cruel.

Not that he cared. Jaime could rot, for all that he cared, but he, reluctantly, cared about Brienne and felt the uncharacteristic need to give her a push in the direction of her own happiness.

“Tormund wants to fuck you. It's fucking obvious to even a half witted, blind, one hundred year old septa, but you're dense. Impregnating you was all he wanted to talk about North of the wall. So. Now you know.” 

Brienne's mouth was hanging open in shock and growing outrage, which did nothing to dissuade Sandor. He was finally beginning to enjoy himself.

“Oh, Jaime Lannister wants to fuck you too,” he said, grinning over at Jaime, making the handsome man narrow his eyes suspiciously over at them. “And knowing Cersei, she'll have trained him well in pleasure. Fuck them both, if you like. You deserve it.” Sandor dipped his head and turned to walk away, but was held back by a hard hand on his shoulder. He turned to find Brienne's face flaming red, but her eyes conflicted.

“Why would you say that?,” she said her voice torn between anger and betrayal. “I'm-” _hideous,_ she'd probably have said. 

“You think me a beauty, wench? Why would I taunt you?” he snapped, cutting her off. “You've two warriors panting after what you've got between your legs, though gods only knows why, and you're too dense to see it. But now you know, and it's up to you what you do about it.”

Brienne released him, her firm grip leaving a sting behind. She didn't say anything, but Sandor thought the look she shot Jaime was both thoughtful and hopeful. 

At the edge of the training yard Sandor paused, looking up at Sansa above him. He said nothing, just filled his eyes with her face one last time. They would officially bid their farewells the next day when Daenerys's party left Winterfell, but this moment felt private between them.

She pressed her leather clad fingertips against her lips and then extended her hand to him, a gesture of affection and forgiveness. “Find peace, Sandor Clegane,” Sansa said softly.

Sandor felt lightness and joy flood his chest. He inclined his head respectfully and smiled, unable to return the wish, but wanting it for her as much as he'd ever wanted anything.


	14. Chapter 14

King's Landing didn't even bother to fight. Sandor could almost imagine Cersei's impotent screams falling on deaf ears, but no matter what she may have said, be it coax or threat, the people of King's Landing and the city's soldiers laid down their weapons in defeat and opened the gates to Daenerys's invading army and circling dragons, their hopes of Daenerys's mercy obviously stronger than their fear of Cersei's retribution. 

It seemed to Sandor somehow poetic: all her life Cersei had demanded the allegiance of those around her not because she deserved it, but because she felt entitled to it. And at the last, her complete disregard for the lives of those around her ultimately meant the loss of her own life.

Sandor walked with Queen Daenerys's party through the streets of King's Landing, Thoros on one side and Arya on the other. Arya was determined to kill Cersei herself, but many people wished for the honor, and Sandor knew she would have to fight for the privilege. He, for one, only cared about the death of his brother. 

The walk through King's Landing seemed a long one, his stomach fluttering with fear and hatred. He still did not feel as though he'd fully regained his strength, and the anticipation of the battle made him feel slightly light headed and weak. He did not fear losing- they had too little opposition, and he wasn't idiot enough to try and take his brother alone. He hadn't been a match for his brother even when he'd had two working hands and he wasn't too proud to admit that. Privately, he feared that the death of his brother would not bring him the peace he had hoped it would for years. Killing his brother would not erase the betrayal. Nothing could.

The palace was empty, the palace guards having fled for their lives and the remaining nobility probably having long ago abandoned the castle. The iron throne, so long contested, stood silent in a cold, empty room. The party assembled, watching with held breath as Daenerys ascended the stairs and sat on the throne, her beautiful head held high. Even Sandor found himself a little enchanted by the moment. He'd hated every King or Queen he'd ever served, but she was different. He might not love her, but he thought he could respect her.

“Bring me Cersei's head,” Daenerys said, her first commandment from the throne carrying across the room. 

** 

 

Perhaps it shouldn't have surprised Sandor that they would have been the ones to find Cersei and her last, most loyal guard, Gregor. There was something about it that almost felt destined, the way Thoros had claimed that he, Sandor and Beric had been destined to kill the Night King. Sandor's path had diverged from its original course when his brother had pressed his face into the fire, and it would end with his brother's blood on his hands. That felt poetic, too.

The Queen's party split up in marauding groups to search for the queen or any evidence of where she might have fled. No one knew if Cersei even still remained in the castle or if she had escaped, but Sandor felt somehow that she _must_ still be within. She wouldn't abandon her position until forced to. She'd remain queen until they took it from her by force. 

They found the dead soldiers first, their limbs torn from their torsos and their necks at odd, unnatural angles and their guts spilled. Their weapons lay by their sides, unbloodied, as though they had not even had a chance to defend themselves before they'd been slaughtered.

“It's like they've been torn apart by beasts,” Beric said thoughtfully, circling the fallen guards while Velsina stooped to peer into the chest cavity of one of the soldiers, as though reading his fortunes in his innards. Wildlings were odd.

“Gregor is a beast,” Sandor grunted, but even he had a hard time looking at the soldiers and thinking of his brother's hand wrecking such damage. His brother had been a breathtakingly brutal man before he'd been twisted into a monster, and the thought of him now made Sandor feel chilled.

“The bodies are fresh. Did they try to stop them?” Arya said, crouching down next to Velsina to examine the bodies with a detached air. Sandor could smell the steaming blood that ran like a flooded sewer around them and the sour stench of spilled guts, but Arya didn't seem to care.

“They didn't want to leave witnesses,” Gendry said, and Arya nodded slowly. 

“When I was a girl, I escaped the Red Keep once,” she said, her eyes squinted as she obviously looked back through time. “There was a sewer... and dragon skeletons.”

Sandor exchanged a glance with Thoros. “I know where that is,” he said gruffly, and led them through hallways and down stairs. They found more dead soldiers along the way, pools of warm blood still spreading from their fresh corpses. They began to run, thundering down stairs and careening around corners, like hounds with the scent of blood.

They found them in the cellar, Cersei hiding inside the huge rib cage of a dragon like a child and Gregor standing at the head, his back straight and his huge sword gripped in his hand. She was pressed back against the bones, looking small and fragile compared to the great beast. Sandor felt a brief, unexpected flaring of pity, to see a woman who'd once been so great brought so low.

“Thought you could hide from us, Cersei?” Arya taunted gleefully, practically dancing on the spot with her needle in one hand and her Valyrian dagger in the other. She grinned at Cersei, her face alight with malice. She'd waited a long time to avenge her father. “I'm going to cut the crown off your head,” she whispered, her haunting voice just loud enough to be heard.

Cersei gazed hatefully out at them, crouched amid the bones. “Kill them!” she screeched, and Sandor's brief moment of pity was washed away. No doubt she believed she would still escape. Gregor had killed every man he'd ever gone up against, after all, and Beric, Thoros, Sandor, Velsina, Arya and Gendry weren't really so fearsome.

Thoros and Beric wiped fire up their swords and moved in on Gregor, each taking a side. A fresh bolt of panic shot through Sandor, fear finally piercing through his rush of adrenaline. Although he carried a dagger in his left hand, he felt helpless without his fighting arm. Even at his best he hadn't been a match for Gregor, and without him would the other five, two aged warriors, a matronly wildling, a green boy and an eight stone girl really have any chance?

“Wait, Thoros!” Sandor cried in alarm, but Thoros either didn't hear him or paid him no heed. Beric and Thoros struck at once, but Gregor took them without difficulty, blocking their blows with one great swing of his sword so powerful that it forced Thoros to stumble back with a shout and knocked Beric to his knees.

Sandor watched in horror as Gregor lifted his sword to finish Beric off. One more good man, about the fall to Gregor.

“No!” Sandor screamed, and dove in, Gendry and Velsina at his heels, even though Thoros had made him swear on his life he wouldn't attempt to interfere in the fight. Sandor ducked in while Gregor still had his sword lifted and managed to drive his dagger in the little slip of exposed fabric at his armpit before Gregor caught him. Gregor didn't even seem to notice the wound. With inhuman strength he brought his fist up and seized Sandor's throat, his fat fingers curling around his vulnerable neck and squeezing. Sandor grappled at Gregor's fingers with his one good hand, but the grip was so strong already he could see lights blinking before his eyes. He kicked and writhed, but Gregor seemed immune to the blows. 

Even as his life was choked from him, Gregor's hideous face drew his eyes irresistibly. His grotesque head was purple with rot and alchemy and sat like a boulder upon his swollen neck. His curdled skin stretched over the bones of his skull like a ripe blue cheese and his red eyes seemed to glow dully in the dim light of the torches high on the walls. He supposed he had not grown any since he had seen him last, yet he seemed larger than ever, as though his entire body was bloated with malevolence. 

And then, through his bulging eyes, Sandor saw Thoros's face over Gregor's shoulder as the old priest clung to his brother's shoulders. He watched as Thoros brought a dagger around Gregor's neck and drove it backwards, throwing his whole weight behind it so that the dagger didn't just cut Gregor's throat but sliced through his windpipe and then slid up his jaw, cutting his ear off and peeling half of his face away from the skull before it struck bone and lodged like an axe stuck in a tree trunk. 

Sandor's purple face was sprayed with Gregor's blood but mercifully the grip loosened immediately, giving Sandor a chance to stagger away, gasping and choking on blissful, labored breaths.

When he looked back he expected to see his brother on his knees, but instead he saw the Mountain reaching over his ruined head where Thoros clung like a monkey. Gregor's hands, wet and greasy with his own blood, grabbed a hank of Thoros's hair and wrenched him off him with inhuman strength. Gregor flung the priest from him, slinging him against the floor hard enough that his body slid several feet before hitting the dragon's skull and crumpling to a stop. Thoros lifted his head weakly and propped himself on his elbows, but he seemed stunned. A pitiful clump of Thoros's hair clung to Gregor's meaty fist.

“Thoros!” Sandor croaked, torn between going to his lover's aide and stepping in to stop his brother, who somehow still moved, even with Thoros's dagger still stuck in his skull and half of his face flopping wetly away from the bone. His throat was like a gaping second mouth, exposing gristle and a whistling windpipe and spouting blood like a geyser. 

He _should have been dead_. Was he already too dead to be killed? 

Gregor stumbled towards the three fighters who remained on their feet, Beric, Gendry and Arya, blood still spraying from his throat, his hands outstretched and a look of deathly intent in his one remaining eye.

Arya darted boldly forward with Needle, but Gregor shoved her away before she'd even gotten close enough to find a point of vulnerability in his armor. She fell to the ground, her arm twisted behind her, and Gregor followed. She howled when Gregor clamped a fist around her ankle, drawing her back towards him. She kicked frantically, and Gendry and Beric were on Gregor at once, taking advantage of his split attention.

Gregor's huge paws were climbing up Arya's leg now, pulling her little body towards his own like a beast drawing his prey towards his open jaws. The fingers of his right hand gripped her thigh and his blood sprayed over her legs, but before Gregor could tear her legs from her body, Beric lifted his sword high above his head and brought it down, slicing straight through Gregor's armor and wedging itself in his shoulder. Gregor fell forward onto Arya's scrambling legs, his huge weight crushing her. And still he moved, weakly but malevolently, hands grasping and eyes burning red. 

Gendry, with a roar of rage, brought his huge war hammer down on the back of Gregor's skull. The huge, swollen head split like a melon, spraying blood and gore in all directions. Sandor stumbled towards them, and to his horror, he saw the way Gregor's body still writhed and twitched. Gregor's arms and legs jerked and the red eyes of his smashed skull rolled wildly. His red teeth gnashed and his tongue flailed from his lips.

“He's dead! He's dead. He's dead,” Arya gasped, as though to convince herself, and Sandor reached for her first, pulling her little body out from under Gregor's torso. She immediately clung to him, burying her face in his chest in a rare moment of weakness. She'd been scared, he realized, and he wrapped his arm around her shoulders to comfort her. He'd been scared too. 

Beric and Gendry were panting, staring down at Gregor's body mistrustfully. Even dead the Mountain seemed dangerous, like a snake that could still bite after death.

Sandor pushed Arya towards Gendry and limped over to where Thoros still lay. He sank creakily down to his knees and gathered the old priest against his chest with his one good arm. He ran his eyes over his body, checking for unnatural angles or blood.

“Injured?” Sandor rasped, the single word hurting his burning throat, but Thoros just shook his head and panted, exhausted from the fight and conducting his own examination of Sandor's throat, his fingers gentle and cool.

“It's done,” Thoros said, looking up searchingly at Sandor. “Your brother is dead. You have your revenge.”

Sandor just sighed and shook, feeling as tired and drained as a cast off rag doll. Revenge wasn't as cathartic as he'd expected it to be. It just felt like something he could finally put behind him.

When Cersei screamed it shocked Sandor from his thoughts, making him flinch and gasp in a painful breath. He'd forgotten about the queen- truthfully, he'd little cared about her to begin with. Compared to Gregor she'd been a very minor hate.

Sandor whipped his head around and saw Arya sitting on the queen's chest, her face alight with passionate triumph. She was covered in Gregor's blood, from the crown of her dark head all the way down her legs, and when she sliced in to Cersei's scalp blood sprayed her face, turning her grinning mouth red.

“Fuck!” Thoros gasped, but Sandor just watched as Arya sliced the scalp from the crown of Cersei's head, turning the famous blond strands red with gore. She'd taken the queen's crown, as she'd promised to. Over the queen's ear splitting screams Sandor could hear Arya speaking to her quietly. He couldn't make out the words but he could guess her words.

It was unnecessarily brutal, but Sandor's conscience was quiet. The Wolf Girl was wild and savage beneath her little girl facade. That was what made her a wolf. 

He wondered if Gendry knew that yet. He saw the boy take a step, as though he meant to intercede, before drawing to a stop. Wise.

Arya only slit the queen's throat once she'd removed the bloody scalp and let the queen moan and plead for a while, and only then did she allow Beric to step in and remove the head to be taken to the new queen.

Sandor watched Arya tenderly tie the queen's scalp to her belt, as though she meant to keep it as a trophy, and wondered for a moment if he felt compelled to do the same with his brother. Did he want anything of Gregor's to remind him of his passing?

But, no. His brother was dead and would never rape, murder or harm again. He needed nothing to remind him of that- the knowledge would stay with him always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is still following this story, make sure you read all three of the new chapters I'm posting today. Hand on a bible, I promise the epilogue will be up shortly.


	15. Chapter 15

Clegane Keep, several months later:

 

The boys, three of Velsina's orphans ranging in age from seven to fourteen, were digging up Sandor's father's grave. Their mothers might have protested the grim task, but their mothers were dead and Velsina was a practical woman. They lived under Sandor's roof and would do whatever reasonable task he asked of them; if anyone thought Sandor eccentric, they wisely kept their opinions to themselves. 

Perhaps Sandor should have unearthed the grave himself, but it would have taken a long fucking time with one arm and a half frozen ground. Though Thoros's confident prediction that spring was coming seemed every day more likely with the rising temperatures and the thawing ice, the ground was still hard from months of bitter cold. Instead he and Thoros watched until the boys had cleared the last of the dirt off the lid of the casket.

The fourteen year old, who Sandor had once made cry trying to teach him how to hold a sword, now looked up from the hole, eager for Sandor's approval. Like a fucking puppy, he thought, but nodded instead of snarling as he might once have. “Good job, lads,” he said gruffly, and they exchanged obviously proud looks. “We'll take it from here. Leave the shovels.”

The boys climbed easily out of the hole, stirring a whiff of envy in Sandor's heart. He'd been that young and whole once, but now his body felt foreign and ungainly as he clambered down into the hole, his one arm attempting to do the work of two. He was still strong though, and had felt a little stronger every day since he'd woken up from his fever and drug induced delirium and decided he would live after all. And live well, if he could.

Thoros dropped in after him, causing the wood of the casket to creak with their combined weight. “How the fuck are we going to get back out?” Thoros asked, as though he'd only been blindly following Sandor's lead and had not considered their exit until he was neck deep in a frozen hole with a one armed man.

Unexpectedly Sandor laughed. Thoros looked over at him, his pleased smile reminding Sandor of the orphan boys' eagerness for approval. The both of them seemed to smile so much more these days than they had used to. It made what should have been a grim task unexpectedly bearable. 

If he'd ever imagined the moment when he gave his father the send off the evil old bastard deserved, he'd imagined the grief, betrayal and fury he'd feel. Now, he only felt thankful to have something in his life besides hate. 

He curled his arm around Thoros's neck and pulled him towards him. “No fucking idea,” he admitted and pressed a lingering kiss to Thoros's whiskery mouth. “Let's get this over with and find out.” 

Sandor gripped a shovel in his left hand and brought it down with his still considerable strength. Three blows later he'd torn away the wood from the head of the casket, revealing what was left of his father within. It was bones, mostly, though there were wisps of hair and bits of leathery, dried skin. All they smelled was the wet dirt and mold and a hint of decay, like a memory. The humor drained from Sandor as he stared down at the skull. He'd been dead a long time, but he'd never forget that it had been his own father who had allowed Gregor to torture Sandor. 

The man who should have loved and protected his youngest child had chosen Gregor over Sandor. The hate might have faded, but the hurt would remain forever, he supposed.

“Go on, piss on his bones,” Thoros said, startling Sandor from his contemplation. Then, when Sandor made no move to do so, Thoros put a hand on Sandor's waist, worming his hand into the front of his trousers when Sandor did not brush off his touch. Thoros's hand was pleasantly warm and familiar on his cock but when the priest began to push his trousers down for him Sandor put a hand up to his wrist to halt his progress.

“No,” he said hoarsely. 

“This is your only chance,” Thoros said, completely without judgment. His hand cradled Sandor's shaft and testicles tenderly as they both stared down at the bones of Sandor's father, and Sandor thought that this was possibly the strangest moment he'd experienced in a life full of rare wonders and unexplained horrors.

“I don't think I could squeeze out a fucking drop,” Sandor admitted, and suddenly they were laughing again, even though it wasn't very funny. 

“This endeavor is more interesting than I realized,” an amused feminine voice said from above them and they jerked apart, Thoros's hand getting tangled in Sandor's trousers for only a few awkward moments.

“Girl!” Sandor growled up at Arya. “Don't sneak up on people. That's how you get your throat cut.”

“Uh-huh,” Arya said skeptically, smirking and looking down at them with her hands on her hips. “I'll piss on him if you want,” she offered. “I never pissed on anyone's bones before.”

Thoros and Sandor exchanged a look. It didn't seem to hold the same emotional punch to be pissed on by a stranger as by your own son, but whatever made Arya happy... He shrugged. 

“Alright,” he said, not for the first time glad that Arya and Gendry had decided to winter with Sandor at Clegane Keep. 

Arya dropped down into the hole and pushed her pantaloons down without even a shred of self consciousness. Thoros looked away politely but there had never been any modesty between Arya and Sandor and he watched as she squatted above the skeleton. He supposed Wolf girls couldn't aim as well as men could, but Arya still managed to get most of the contents of her bladder on the skull. She pulled her pantaloons back up and turned to observe the effect while she tied the strings at her waist. 

“And now we burn him?” she asked, with more relish than Sandor felt. 

“First we get out of the hole,” he said firmly. 

Arya climbed up out of the grave as nimbly as a monkey, but Sandor had to use the shovel to create footholds for he and Thoros. In the end Thoros and Arya had to hold Sandor's good arm and heave him the rest of the way out, but eventually they stood on the edge of the grave, staring down at the pitiful remains. Arya helped them build a pyre in the hole until they could no longer see his father, but it was still satisfying as Arya threw the burning sticks she'd lit from the kitchen hearth down into the grave. 

Arya and Thoros stayed by the edge as the fire crept up the edges of the dirt walls, but Sandor paced back until he was far enough from the fire he could breathe. 

His father's grave stone had already been crushed and soon his bones would be dust. They would fill the hole in again and grass would grow over the ground, so that years after Sandor was gone, there would be no evidence the place had ever been marked by a grave. Sandor himself would be buried at the back of the little cemetery, near the much more modest graves of his mother and sister. 

His father and brother were now just memories he could finally begin to put behind him.

“It's done,” Sandor said, too quietly for any but himself to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep thinking I'm writing the last chapter, and then I find that there's still more story I want to tell. This chapter turned out to be part of Sandor's personal growth and not the happy ending vibe I like in an epilogue, so there's going to be one more update after this.


	16. Chapter 16

Sandor awoke to a pleasant voice whispering his name in his ear and familiar hands on him.

Sandor groggily stretched out his arm and felt the place where Thoros normally slept but the sheets were cool and empty beneath his touch. He turned into Thoros's touch behind him, befuddled by sleep.

“Thoros?” he mumbled, squinting up at his lover, who was holding a shockingly bright lantern in the darkness of the room. Thoros had his nightshirt and robe on but Sandor could see he'd shoved his boots on beneath the hem and dirt and straw clung to the heels.

Peace had made him grow complacent, but unease stirred in his belly. “What is it?” he asked, struggling upright awkwardly with his good arm under him.

“Lady Crane had her pups. Come to the stable to see!”

Sandor, relieved, sat up without protest, even though it was still the middle of the night, judging by the darkness of the room. 

Thoros had Sandor's slippers and robe ready for him and he pulled it over his nudity and belted it at the waist. Thoros held the lantern aloft to light their way, leading him through Clegane Keep's shabby hallways (though considerably less shabby than they had found them months earlier) and through the kitchens, out onto the grounds.

Dogs had traditionally been kept in Clegane Keep's kennels, but they had not yet been restored, and so now horses and hounds alike shared the stables. It had been ideal in the winter, for the dogs would curl up with the horses to share warmth. Now that spring had arrived, Sandor thought it was time to restore the kennels that had once been the pride of Clegane Keep during his grandfather's time. 

“I woke up in the night to piss and thought I would check-” Thoros was saying, grinning over his shoulder at Sandor. “And there they were.”

Sandor felt a rush of tenderness for Thoros. Thoros had been as excited as Sandor about the litter they'd been waiting on for the last week.

Thoros led them into the stall where Lady Crane had chosen to make a nest for her pups and approached cautiously. A bitch could be protective of her puppies, but Lady Crane just looked up at them, her ears flat with submission and her tail thumping against the hay, as though proud to show off her brood to her master. She had a fine boned face and a steady gaze, and she was often found at Sandor's side, favored above other dogs. 

“There, girl,” Sandor said, kneeling stiffly into the hay and giving Lady Crane a rough caress to show his approval. The dog, who Arya had named, was a favorite of Sandor's. She'd come with them, along with another dozen hunters, from the Red Keep's own kennel, a gift from Daenerys that Sandor treasured as much as the food and gold that were restoring his family home. 

“Look,” Thoros said, pulling the hay aside to show where the puppies latched greedily onto Lady Crane's teats. She had a small litter for her breed, but they were large, strong pups, not a one of them weak and runty.

A part of Sandor, the little boy who'd played among the hounds as though he were one himself, wanted to pick up the tiny wriggling pups and play with them, but he restrained himself. They needed to feed from their mother and rest after their exhausting journey into the world and there would be plenty of time in the days and weeks ahead to begin to train and bond with them. 

“A fine litter,” Sandor pronounced, making Lady Crane wriggle with happiness at the warmth in his voice.

“We'll let them sleep,” Thoros said, drawing away and taking the light of the lantern with them. 

Sandor rose to his feet and followed, but instead of going to the stable door Thoros moved back further into the stable, glancing in each stall as he passed, checking on the horses and hounds. It pleased Sandor, the obviously proprietary way Thoros had taken to life at Clegane Keep, his every action speaking of a man who intended to make this his home. 

“Svetla will be next,” Thoros pronounced, peering in at the mare that had been another gift from Daenerys and had come to them already impregnated by one of the Red Keep's best stallions. 

Sandor, who knew less about horses than he did about hounds, just followed, glancing in at the beautiful mare. “Perhaps,” he said, for she wasn't the only mare who looked ready to foal.

Thoros gave him a wise look. “She will,” he assured him.

Sandor leaned against the stall door and smirked at Thoros. “What do you know about foaling?” he asked and Thoros folded his arms and mirrored his posture, though he smiled at Sandor's teasing tone.

“There were horses in Myr. I know a thing or two about mares,” Thoros said in a suggestive tone, making it clear he was not speaking of horses. “Though I know more about stallions.”

Sandor smiled back, feeling that familiar flutter of arousal. He did not protest when Thoros drew nearer, slipping his hand coyly past the opening of Sandor's robe to touch the bare skin of his chest within. Sandor let him, shivering at the rough brush of Thoros's fingers over his nipple and then over his rib cage. When Thoros tipped his head back in obvious appeal for a kiss Sandor obliged him, drawing his arm around the priest's waist and tugging him closer.

His breath smelled of rum, but Sandor forgave him. Thoros would always love his rum, but he didn't drink the way he once had, like a man intent on killing himself with drink before something else had a chance to. His lips were sweet to Sandor, and his neck and collarbones were sweeter.

“Let's go in,” Sandor urged in a husky voice. He'd be tired the next morning from the lack of sleep, but it seemed a fair price to pay at the moment.

But Thoros surprised him, as he so often did. The priest pulled him further back into the stable, holding the lantern far enough away to not make Sandor nervous. “You told me once you lost your virginity in this stable,” he said, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Which stall? Do you remember?”

Sandor didn't remember which particular stall, but he didn't want to disappoint Thoros, so he nodded to the back of the stables, where the stalls were not yet filled with livestock. “That one,” he said, nodding to one of the stalls they stored hay in, because he had a fairly good idea what Thoros had in mind and they were both too old to be fucking on bare ground.

“You said you used saddle oil,” Thoros said, but he withdrew one of the little pots of ointment Velsina made from his robe pocket. It was distributed to the household, supposedly for aching muscles, but Sandor and Thoros had found better uses for it, as it turned out. “We'll make do,” he said, having clearly planned for this.

Thoros tugged him into the stall and hooked the lantern onto a nail, throwing illumination into the warm little enclosure. “How old were you?”

Fuck, Sandor couldn't remember. Young, though. Younger than he probably should have been, but he'd been so starved for affection and closeness in those days that he'd probably have bent over for anyone who'd shown him the slightest bit of attention. “Twelve or thirteen,” he guessed, for he'd certainly still been more child than man. The other boy had been in his older teenage years, but Sandor had been rather smitten in his sullen, awkward way. Now he couldn't even remember the other boy's name.

Thoros whistled, but whether because he was impressed or disapproving, Sandor couldn't tell. Certainly, there were a great many who'd been used younger, and most not of their own will at that, and he couldn't regret it. He'd been too young, but those times in the stable with the older boy had been some of the few pleasant memories from his childhood. 

Thoros removed Sandor's flimsy covering, leaving him standing in the straw, nude save the soft leather slippers he wore in their bedroom, a gift from one of Velsina's orphan girls.

Thoros pulled off his own robe and nightshirt and laid it over a bale of hay he obviously deemed the right height and then his hands were on Sandor, guiding him over to it. 

“On your knees, Clegane,” he said throatily, and a nostalgic shiver went through Sandor. That might have been what that first boy had told him as well. 

Sandor stiffly knelt into the straw before the hay bale. The straw poked and itched at his knees and thighs, but when he leaned his weight onto his elbow and chest, the soft robe felt good against his skin. 

The spring air was warm enough Sandor did not shiver, but Thoros's hands on him felt good as the priest put reverent hands on his waist. “Like this?” Thoros asked in a husky voice. His hands moved from Sandor's waist down, to cup Sandor's muscular arse in his palms.

“Yes,” Sandor whispered, letting the memories rise up. It was startlingly familiar, being bent over a bale of hay and it made his burgeoning arousal bloom into sudden, ferocious lust. He widened his stance a little so that Thoros could kneel between them and he bowed his back, pressing his arse out for Thoros like an animal in heat. 

He laid his head down on his forearm and smiled faintly. He might never cease to worry and think to a time when everything good in his life would be taken away from him- fuck knew it was the pattern by which his life seemed set- but he'd always have this, wouldn't he? The memory of Thoros's hands and lips on him and the knowledge that he'd been loved, no matter for how short a time it might be.

And then, maybe it wouldn't be a short time. Perhaps it would be a lifetime. Thoros had promised him a lifetime, and Sandor could almost believe it. 

Thoros, seeing the smile, leaned down and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“I wish it had been you,” Sandor admitted gruffly. He couldn't help but imagine how different his life might have been if he'd had Thoros all along. A niggle of bitterness threatened to ruin his mood, but he fought it down. He could change nothing of the monstrous things he'd done and had done to him, and he didn't want to ruin this moment with Thoros by dwelling on them. He thought of Brother Ray, who'd done terrible things and had found the capacity to forgive himself. Sandor might never be able to do that, but the possibility seemed so much more feasible than it once had.

“Me too,” Thoros said, and gave Sandor's rump a healthy swat that made him jerk and growl in a mock warning sort of way, while he was privately pleased to be jolted by the downward spiral of his thoughts. “Still, it's me now. No one else.”

There was a hint of possessiveness in Thoros's voice that made Sandor smile even wider. Sandor had belonged, in one fashion or another, to many different masters, but never by anyone who loved him. That, he found, made all the difference

Sandor couldn't put those sorts of feelings into words, so he just grunted his agreement and watched over his shoulder as Thoros moved behind him, leaning over to press kisses to the back of his neck and then down his spine. _You're mine too,_ he thought, so full of tenderness and _relief_ that his throat felt a little choked.

“Fucking plum,” Thoros muttered lustily, and though Sandor must surely not have made a particularly pretty sight bent over the hay, he was left in no doubt of Thoros's desire for him. Thoros kissed the base of the spine, and then down to bite at the flesh of Sandor's backside.

“Priest!” he barked impatiently, and Thoros rewarded him by pressing his tongue against his arsehole. Sandor gasped and fought to remain still. No one had ever done that to him before, and he was torn between wanting to crane away from such a foreign touch and lean back into it.

“Fuck!” Sandor swore, clutching a hand into the meat of his severed bicep, to ground himself, and squeezed his eyes shut. The squire from his memories had never done this- he'd never made Sandor's pleasure his priority, but Thoros was different. Thoros licked his arsehole, fast little laps like a cat drinking milk, before he crouched lower behind Sandor and began to nuzzle at his testicles while his slippery fingers began to caress his hole. 

Sandor leaned his weight heavily on his arm and pressed his teeth into his forearm, to keep from moaning aloud. Thoros wasn't really doing much yet, but every time he touched him it was sweet. 

“Thoros,” he growled in warning when the priest had two slippery fingers stuffed in his arse and the other hand wrapped around Sandor's cock. “Get on with it.” _Before he came,_ but he wouldn't admit that.

Thoros withdrew his fingers and replaced his fingers with his cock before Sandor could even gasp from the loss. They groaned in unison, the sensation almost too much.

“Like- this?” Thoros gasped, his body tense as he forced himself to breach Sandor slowly.

Sandor just pushed back, rocking his hips and fucking Thoros's cock in and out of his body in jerky thrusts. It was all the encouragement Thoros needed. Thoros's hands landed heavily on his shoulders and his knees were tight against Sandor's sides. 

“Fuck, Sandor, fuck,” Thoros grunted as he heaved into Sandor's body. Sandor leaned his head back and Thoros met him over his shoulder, pressing sloppy kisses to Sandor's neck, shoulder and cheek. “I love you,” the priest growled and it made Sandor's feel like fireworks were exploding in his chest.

“Yes,” Sandor whispered, because he couldn't speak of his feelings as Thoros could, for all that he felt them just as keenly. “Yes.” He wished he had his other arm so he could reach back and hold Thoros's hand, so he could bring his knuckles to his mouth and kiss his love into his skin when words failed him.

“I love your cock... and your cunt,” Thoros said lasciviously and tongued his neck and ear as best as he could while humping away behind him like a rutting stallion, and Sandor's sentimental mood dissolved. Anyone else might have lost their head for such a comment, but it only made Sandor shake with muffled laughter. 

Thoros, feeling the shaking of his shoulders, just let his weight rest against Sandor's back and breathed heavily into his ear while grinding his cock into Sandor. “Your cunt was made for me, wasn't it, Clegane?” he laughed breathlessly, his teeth against the shell of Sandor's ear. “Hot, wet, tight- Lord help me, _Sandor,_ ” he groaned. Thoros's weight intensified as he allowed the bulk of his upper body to rest against Sandor's back while both hands ran down Sandor's sides and around the front to where Sandor's cock hung heavily between his legs.

Thoros grasped Sandor in both hands and Sandor sighed at the feeling of Thoros's tight, confident grip. Thoros's awkward position prevented him from thrusting vigorously, but they ground together deliciously anyway, Thoros balanced precariously on his heels and Sandor hampered by his weight. Sandor grinned anyway, eyes shut with bliss as Thoros worked his prick while his own cock rubbed that spot in Sandor that wanted Thoros's attention most.

Not actually being teenagers, however, it wasn't a position Thoros could hold for long. When Thoros's breaths became less erotic and more labored, Sandor shifted his shoulders and leaned away from the hay bale. “Get up,” he demanded, ignoring Thoros's displeased noises, and shuffled them backward until Thoros's cock slipped out of him.

Sandor rose with some difficulty to his feet, then turned on Thoros, who looked uncertain, thin, rumpled and rather red in the face- and generally beautiful to Sandor. 

“Sit down,” Sandor said, still smiling, and Thoros complied, dropping down gratefully onto the bale of hay, which was starting to look a good deal flatter than it had been to start with. He leaned against the mound of hay behind him and lifted his arms to welcome Sandor when he knelt down over his hips.

“Did you and your squire do this too?” he asked when Sandor reached behind them and guided Thoros's cock back to his hole.

Sandor shook his head when he lowered himself down onto his lover. It was a good angle, and he rotated his hips luxuriously. A bit more of Velsina's ointment would not have gone amiss, but Thoros's robe was too far away to bother with and Sandor didn't mind a bit of ache to go with his pleasure. “He liked my arse better than my face,” he said honestly, for though the squire had never said as much, it had been painfully obvious to Sandor at the time.

“Idiot,” Thoros said darkly.

Sandor just smiled and wrapped his arm around Thoros's shoulders for balance. The proximity allowed him to tip his head down and kiss Thoros. Sandor hadn't kissed the squire either, and he was rather glad that Thoros had that first, at least.

The rocked together, Sandor sliding unhurriedly on Thoros's cock while Thoros stroked him between them, time stilling, until suddenly it was no longer lazy and it became frantic The vigor of Sandor's thrusts dissolved what remained of the bale's structural integrity and spilled them onto a softening mound of hay. Sandor just clung to Thoros, spearing himself on Thoros's cock while his lover's hand brought him off in tight, merciless strokes. 

“Sandor!” Thoros cried, writhing beneath him, his weathered face scrunched in ecstasy. Sandor felt almost as though he could feel Thoros burst inside him, but then he was soon consumed by his own pleasure and he forgot how to think. 

Sandor slumped down onto Thoros, both breathing mightily as they caught their breaths. Neither were as young as they'd once been, but Sandor found it impossible to regret that. He'd certainly never been happier when he was younger.

Once they no longer sounded as though they'd fought a battle, Sandor rolled off of Thoros and sprawled out onto the thick layer of staw where once a neatly tied hay bale had been. 

Thoros curled against his side and rested his head against Sandor shoulder, looking up at him with deep satisfaction and affection. Sandor looked down at Thoros's disreputable leer. He thought about telling Thoros how much he loved him, but he didn't. Thoros knew.

“Do you think anyone will believe the hounds tore up the hay bale?” Sandor asked instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND THERE YOU HAVE IT! It felt sort of full circle to write a fluffy smut scene as the epilogue since the beginning scene of this story was more angsty and lot less emotionally satisfying. I do sincerely appreciate those who stuck with this story and took the time to comment, even though it took me a lot longer to finish that I had planned. I actually never intended this to be anywhere near as long as it turned out to be (at one point the first chapter was a standalone fic) and the length of the story is directly due to the positive response I received from the readers. So, I hope you enjoyed this fix it fic! Oh, I so wish this could have been what really happened for Thoros and Sandor. They deserve it.

**Author's Note:**

> it would be lovely if you'd drop me a comment and let me know what you think. Because this is a rare pair (as in, as far as I'm aware, I'm the only one writing this pairing) your support particularly means a lot to me because not many people are reading this. Thank you so much to those of you who've taken the time to let me know they read and enjoyed. You don't know how much it means!


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